The Project Gutenberg eBook, Adventures and Recollections, by Bill o'th'
Hoylus End
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Title: Adventures and Recollections
Author: Bill o'th' Hoylus End
Release Date: June 9, 2009 [eBook #29085]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURES AND RECOLLECTIONS***

Transcribed by Steven Wood from the Keighley Herald
(1893).

ADVENTURES and RECOLLECTIONSof
BILL O’TH HOYLUS END.

[Bill o’th Hoylus End might be termed a local
Will-o’th-Wisp. He has been everything by turns, and
nothing long. Now, a lean faced lad, “a mere anatomy, a
mountebank, a thread bare juggler, a needy, hollow-ey’d,
sharp looking wretch;” now acting the pert, bragging youth,
telling quaint stories, and up to a thousand raw tricks; now
tumbling and adventuring into manhood with yet the oil and fire
and force of youth too strong for reason’s sober guidance;
and now—well and now—finding the checks of time have
begun to grapple him, he looks back upon the past and tells his
curious stories o’er again. Verily, as Shakespeare declares
in All’s Well, “the web of his life is of a
mingled yarn, good and ill together;” and through it all
there is a kind of history, just as

“There is a history in all men’s
lives,
Figuring the nature of the times deceased.”

This son of Mischief, Art and Guile has stooped to many things
but to conquer himself and be his own best friend; that is,
according to the conception of the ordinary, respectable, get-on
folk of the world. He has followed more or less the wild,
shifting impulses of his nature—restless and reckless, if
aimless and harmless; fickle and passionate, if rebelliously
natural; exhausting his youth and manhood in fruitless action,
and devoting the moments of reflection to the playful current of
the muse’s fancy, forsooth, to the delectation of the more
prosaic humanity in this his locality. A life of pleasure was
ever his treasure, and he agrees, after experience of
life’s fitful dream, that

E’en Pleasure acts a treacherous part,
She charms the scene, but stings the heart,
And while she gulls us of our wealth,
Or that superior pearl, our health,

[Yet, and these are the two lines he substitutes for the
melancholy truth of an old poet],

Yet she restores for all the pains,
By giving Merit her exchange.

Though the poetic flame has flickered from time to time, it
has never been extinguished. There is health and buoyancy still
in his muse. It is the one thing essential, the one thing
permanent in his nature—ever ready to impart the mystic
jingle to pictures of fun and frolic, or perchance judgement and
reflection. Thus, as the local Burns, he stands unrivalled. His
poetic effusions speak for themselves, but there are other traits
in his career which he wished to convey to the public, which
might while away an occasional half-hour in the reading of his
stories of the tricks of his boyhood, the adventures of his early
manhood, and to learn how he became—well, what he is! He
has been caught in divers moods and at sundry times, and his
words have been taken in shorthand, the endeavour always being to
keep the transcript as faithful as circumstances would allow. No
pretence is here made to evolve a dramatic story, but rather to
present Bill’s career simply and faithfully for public
perusal; for to use Dr. Johnson’s words, “If a man is
to write a panegyric, he can keep the vices out of sight; but if
he professes to write a life he must represent it really as it
was.”]

MY BIRTHPLACE, HOME AND PARENTAGE

It was on the 22nd day of March, 1836, in a village midway
between Keighley and Haworth, in a cottage by the wayside, that
I, William Wright, first saw light. The hamlet I have just
alluded to was and now is known by the name of Hermit Hole: which
name, by the way, is said to have been given to it owing to the
fact that a once-upon-a-timeyfied hermit abided there. At the top
end of the village stood a group of houses which, also,
distinguished themselves by a little individuality, and go by the
name of “Hoylus End.” My parents’ house was one
of this group. All this is about my home. My father was
James Wright, at one time a hand-loom weaver, latterly a weft
manager at Messrs W. Lund & Sons, North Beck Mills, Keighley,
a position which he held for somewhere about half a century. He
was the son of Jonathan Wright, farmer, Damems. My mother was a
daughter of Crispin Hill, farmer and cartwright, of Harden, and
she enjoyed a relationship with Nicholson, the Airedale poet. I
can trace my ancestry back for a long period. The Wrights at one
time belonged to the rights of Damems. Then according to
Whitaker’s “Craven” and “Keighley: Past
and Present”, “Robert Wright, senior, and Robert
Wright, junior,” ancestors of mine, fought with Earl de
Clifford, of Skipton, on Flodden Field. I believe I am correct in
saying that since that event the name of Robert has been retained
in our family down to the present time—a brother of mine
now holding the honour. Several of my ancestors, along with my
grand father, are buried in the Keighley Parish Church-yard, at
the east end. But it strikes me that I’m going astray a
little.

A MUSICAL FATHER

Many old townsfolk—especially those musically
inclined—will remember my father, who was a vocalist of no
mean repute;—at least, this was said of him in general.
Possessing a rich tenor voice, he was in great demand, both
publicly and privately. He occupied the position of leading
singer in the Keighley Parish Church Choir, at the time when the
late Mr. B. F. Marriner and other gentlemen were prominently
associated with the Church. His services were often requisitioned
on the occasion of anniversaries of places of worship, &c. In
those days, mind you, “t’anniversary Sunday”
was regarded as a big and auspicious event. Great preparations
were made for it, and when the service did take place people
attended from miles around; I believe the singing was relied on
as the chief “fetching” medium. But somehow or other
I never did care much for singing—I really didn’t.
Nevertheless I ought to say we had an abundance—I was going
to say over-abundance—of singing in our house; indeed, the
word used is not nearly sufficiently expressive—I
had singing to breakfast, singing to dinner, singing to supper,
singing to go to bed—Ah! My pen was going further, but I
just managed to stop it. One really must, you know, represent
things as they stand.

A MISCHIEVOUS BOYHOOD

But, as I have told you, I didn’t take to singing. I
would ten times ten rather be “away to the woods,
away!” I recollect that when I was a little boy—my
parents said I was a little naughty boy—I got into
endless scrapes. But people will talk. Roaming in the woods had
an especial charm for me; and Peace Close Wood was my favourite
haunt. Some people had the bad grace to let me hear that my
visits to the wood were not very much sought for. It was said
that I had a habit of peeling bark off as many trees as I could
conveniently—sometimes it got to be
inconveniently—manage, and, in fact, doing anything that
wasn’t exactly up to the nines. I now feel rather sorry
that I should have given my father and mother so much uneasiness,
and cause my father so much expense. Of course the keeper of the
wood soon got to know me and my eccentricities; it was a bad day
for me when he did. It’s a sad thing for you when you get
suspected of aught; if all doesn’t go like
“square” you may look out for squalls. In my case, my
father had to “turn-out” and pay for the damage I was
said to have done to the trees; those upon which I left my mark
had generally to come down—young trees—trees with
plenty of life in them I took immensely to. But I have since
thought they needn’t have pestered my father as much as
they did. I had many a narrow “squeak” in my boyish
days. When I was about an octave of years old, I remember very
feelingly an escapade which I was engaged in, as a wind-up to one
of my devastating expeditions to Peace Close Wood. The steward
dogged my footsteps and waylaid me, and, by Jove! he pursued me!
Fortunately for me, perhaps, there was a house near the wood, the
roof of which, at the rear, sloped almost to the ground. I
mounted the roof and walked along the rigging. The steward took
it into his “noddle” to follow suit. He did so. It
was an exciting chase. I ran to the extreme edge of my elevated
platform and then actually jumped—I remember the jump yet,
I do—onto the road below. The result was a visit to
Baildon, to a celebrated doctor there, for an injury to my heels
which I sustained by my fall. Of course the steward had more
sense than to follow me. He complained, I believe, to my father;
but my revered father, and mother too—how I bless them for
it!—gave all attention to their little darling. I
recovered. I was sent to school, which was carried on in the
“Old White House,” near our house. It provided for
the education of all the young blood of the village—my
little self included. This school, I must say in passing, turned
out some very good scholars: there was no set teacher—the
“learned ’uns” of the neighbourhood came
forward and gave their services. It used to be said I was a wild
dog, a harem-scarem; and I was often caned for my pranks.
Caricaturing the teacher was one of my favourite attractions and
principal offences—at least I had to smart most for it. But
I got over it, as all boys seem to have done. Perhaps the best
description of my antics before I was ten years of age will be
found in the following “opinion” of the old wives of
the villages of Fell-lane and Exley-head; the lines came from my
pen more than thirty years ago:—

Playin’ a whistle or drummin’ a
can,
Seein’ how far wi’ his fingers can span:
Breakin’ a window wi’ throwin’ a stone,
Then ligs it on Tommy, or Charley, or Jone;
Mockin’ a weaver when swingin’ his spooils,
Chief-engineer of a train made o’ stooils;
Last out o’ bed, an’ last in at neet—
O! he’s a imp is that young Billy Wreet!

Ridin’ a pony wi’ a rope round its
neck,
Tryin’ to cross a ford or a beck,
Lettin’ off rockets or swingin’ a gate,
Walkin’ on t’riggin’ on t’top of a
slate;
Out a birds’ nestin’ an’ climbin’ up
trees,
Rivin’ his jacket an’ burstin’ his knees;
An’ a body can’t leave ought safe out
o’t’ neet,
But what it’s in danger o’ daft Willie Wreet!

Breakin’ down hedges, an’
climbin’ up trees,
Scalin’ the rocks on his hands an’ his knees,
Huntin’, or skatin’, or flying a kite,
An’ seein’ how much he can take at a bite;
Plaguin’ a donkey, an’ makin’ it kick,
Prickin’ its belly wi’t’ end of a stick;
An’ you who are livin’, you’ll yet live to
see’t,
That something will happen that scamp Billy Wreet!

A FALSE ALARM

About this time the country was in a state of great turbulency
on account of the Plug Drawing and the Chartist Riots. Soldiers
were stationed at Keighley, where the late Captain Ferrand had a
troop of yeoman cavalry under his charge. One day, I recollect,
the Keighley soldiers had a rare outing. This is just how it came
about. An old inhabitant, with the baptismal name, James
Mitchell, but the locally-accepted name, Jim o’th’
Kiers, saw what appeared to him to be the “inimy” on
Lees Moor. “Nah,” thought Jimmy, “we’re
in for’t if we doan’t mind;” and he straightway
went down to Keighley and raised the alarm. It was Sunday, and
the soldiers, as luck had it, happened to be on a Church parade.
Captain Ferrand at once gave the command—like any dutiful
general would do—“To arms!” “To
arms!” The soldiers thereupon proceeded to the indicated
scene of action; I saw the noble warriors gallop past our house
“in arms and eager for the fray.” But upon reaching
the spot marked out by Jim o’th’ Kiers, the soldiers
were somewhat puzzled and “sore amazed” to find no
enemy—that is to say, nothing to mean aught. Jimmy
couldn’t understand it: he rubbed his eyes to see if he was
awake, but rubbing made “not a bit of difference.”
The nearest thing which they could even twist or twine into
“the inimy” was a poor old man with a pair of
“arm-oil” crutches. Jimmy having been severely
questioned as to the sincerity of his motive in
“hevin’ t’sowgers aht,” the poor old
fellow whom they had fallen upon came in for a turn; but the only
explanation he could give was that they had been holding a
Ranters’ camp-meeting, and that he, not being able to get
away as rapidly as he could have wished had been left behind. Now
they did make a fool of Jim o’th’ Kiers, they did
that, and the soldiers were jeered and scoffed at a good deal by
the crowd. I, a little, wandering, curiosity-seeking specimen of
humanity, was among the latter, and I trow I had as much fun out
of the affair as was good for me.

A REMOVAL

Soon after this skirmishing—you will have to excuse the
absence of any dates, I didn’t bethink me to keep a
diary—my parents removed from Hoylus-end, and went to live
at a farm called Wheat-head, in Fell-lane, now known as the
Workhouse Farm.

CHARACTER SKETCHES

My stay at Wheat-head Farm, which lasted about ten years, was
to me a very interesting one. I cannot refrain from making a
passing allusion to my acquaintance with a character who created
quite a sensation at the time. This “character” was
no other than “Old Three Laps”—an individual
who at his baptism was known as William Sharp. This singularly
eccentric specimen of humanity lived at Whorl’s Farm, and,
as it will be generally known took to his bed through being
“blighted” in love. He kept to his bed for about
forty years. During the period he was “bed-fast,” I
often used to go and peep through the window at this freak of
nature—for I can scarcely call it anything else. Then,
while I was a lad, we had such a thing as a hermit in Holme
(House) Wood. The name of this hermit I used to be told was
“Lucky Luke.” For a score of years did
“Luke” live in Holme Wood. I remember my mother
giving the old man his breakfast when he used to call at our
house. His personal appearance frightened me very much. He wore
the whole of his beard, which was of iron-grey colour and reached
down to his waist. His garb was composed of rags, tied to his
body by the free use of rope. He once told my mother that he had
more than once changed clothes with a scarecrow. Sometimes this
queer person would never be seen by mortal man for months
together, unless it were that I disturbed his solitude
occasionally; but then, of course, I was only a boy.
“Luke” had a bad name amongst us lads. I know people
couldn’t fairly make out where he lived; he was wonderfully
“lucky,” and no doubt he had a comfortable lair
somewhere among the rocks and caves. Still the fact remains that
farmers often found occasion to complain of pillaging being
carried on by night in their gardens and turnip fields. This
seems indisputable proof that “Luke” was a
vegetarian—maybe, such a one as the Keighley Vegetarian
Society might be glad to get hold of! Old Job Senior was not a
vegetarian; he went in for a higher art—music. It used to
be the boast of the Rombald’s Moor hermit that he had been
a splendid singer in his day—could sing in any voice. Job
frequently came as far as Keighley and tried to earn
“a’ honest penny” by singing in the streets.
His legs were encased in straw and ropes, and although at times I
own I’m rather backward incoming forward, I hasten to say
that Job’s “outer man and appendages” charmed
more people than his singing did. But, then, “it’s
all in a life-time.”

THE POET’S “PRENTICE HAND”

During my sojourn at Wheat-head Farm I took a fancy to trying
my “prentice hand” at writing poetry. I got a little
encouragement in this at home. My father held singing classes,
and gentlemen from the neighbourhood used to meet at our house to
have their “lessons.” I remember that the present Mr.
Lund, of Malsis Hall, was one of my father’s principal
pupils. Some very good “talent” was turned out in the
way of glee parties particularly, and just before Christmas my
father used to be very busy training singers for carolling. I
often wrote a little doggerel-rhyme to please those who came to
the classes. One of my earliest efforts was a few verses anent my
first pair of britches, which I, in common, I suppose, with other
juveniles, regarded with a great amount of pleasure and pride. I
must apologise for introducing three verses of the piece I wrote
and styled

CHAPTER II.

A ROMANTIC AND NOMADIC YOUTH

Anything that bordered on the romantic and nomadic style of
life had an especial fascination for me. Many a time and oft have
I bestridden horses that had been peacefully pasturing, and
ridden them bare-back around the fields, in a kind of Buffalo
Bill style, you know. I got “nabbed” occasionally,
and then I was candidly told that if I continued “ta dew
sich a dangerous thing ony more, ah sud be sewer to catch
it.”

DIVERS PRANKS

Of course I had divers other pranks, as all boys
have—albeit to the anxiety and sorrow of many up-grown,
and, therefore, unsympathising persons. “Tolling”
doors was another favourite occupation of mine. Modern-time boys
have not generally the same opportunities for
“tolling” as boys had in my time. Our folks provided
an everlasting amount of apparatus for me to carry on my
“professional duties,” and that unknowingly. My
mother was a heald knitter, and there was always plenty of band
throwing about. One night’s “tolling” I
remember with particular liveliness. I thought what a
“champ” thing it would be to have a
“lark” with “Jim o’ Old
Jack’s”—an eccentric old man who lived by
himself in an old thatched dwelling in our locality. I had no
sooner turned the thought over in my mind than I resolved to
“have a go” at the old chap. Poor old Jim went out to
his work during the day-time, returning home at night. So I took
advantage of his absence by hammering a stout nail into the
cross-piece over the doorway. When night approached, and Jim
returned to his homestead—poor old fellow! it makes me long
to ask his forgiveness as I recount this incident—I hooked
a fairish-sized stone, by means of a piece of string, to the nail
which I had placed over the doorway. Near the stone I next
fastened a longer length of string, and then I ensconced myself
on the opposite side of the road. It so happened that the house
stood on one side of a narrow lane, the opposite side of which
was on a much higher level than the roof of the house, and,
besides, faced by a wall. This suited me to a T. All serene!
Having allowed Jim nice time to get comfortably sat down to his
evening meal, I gently pulled the string, with the result that
there was a gentle tapping at the door. Jim naturally answered my
knock, and he seemed rather put about to find that his ears had
evidently deceived him. So he slammed the door to and went
inside—I guessed to resume his seat at the tea table. Then
I “tolled” again and once more Jim came out. He must
have felt a little “nasty” when he found that no one
wanted him at the door.

THE INNOCENT SUFFER FOR THE GUILTY

However, he again closed the door. Before I had time to pull
the string again, I actually heard a knock myself at the door. I
could also see that a person was standing outside. Now Jim must
have determined to drop on somebody, and stationed himself behind
the door, for as soon as he heard the knock which I also
heard, he hurriedly opened the door, bounced into the open, and
commenced to belabour mercilessly, with a stout cudgel, of which
he had possessed himself, the “wretch ’at dared to
knock at ’is door like that.” I sincerely
congratulated myself that it wasn’t my tender carcase that
Jim o’ Jack’s was playing with. The visitor
hadn’t had time to announce himself: Jim didn’t allow
that; but by-and-bye he managed to let Jim know who he was, and
it turned out that he was a near neighbour. I believe they
managed to “mak’ it up ageean.” At other times
I would “toll” the door, and the poor old chap would
rush unceremoniously into a gooseberry bush which I had
before-hand placed on the door-step to give him a sort of
porcupine reception.

BILL AND THE DONKEY

Still further, I recollect fastening a donkey to the handle of
the door. I knocked, and got the donkey into my way of
thinking: Billy would pull for dear life and Jim also would pull
to the same end, and would remain a prisoner in his own citadel.
I now feel sorry for Jim o’ Jack’s, I do. But a life
of all play and no work would tend to make Bill a bad boy.

SCHOOL LIFE

I was packed off to school—the National School at
Keighley, of which Mr. Balfrey was master. He was no doubt a
learned man, having written several works, including a useful
book, entitled “Old Father Thames,” which he
published while he was at Keighley. For some time the master
regarded me as his favourite pupil, but by writing uncouth verse
and drawing questionable pictures bearing upon himself, during
school hours, I got very much into disfavour with him. I
don’t wish to say anything mean of Mr. Balfrey, but still
he didn’t encourage native talent as he might have done: he
might have been jealous, there’s no telling!

SENT TO THE MILL

After leaving the day school, I was sent to Lund’s mill,
where my father was manager over the weft department. My school
career did not finish at the National School, however. I attended
a night school, which was held in a thatched cottage in Greengate
and kept by a man of no small ability in the person of Mr. John
Garnett. He was, I believe, of Scottish extract, and a great
admirer of Burns into the bargain.

TAKING TO BURNS

He had generally a volume of Burns’ poems at his
finger-ends and it was through him that I began to “take
to” Burns and long to pay a visit to the Land o’
Cakes. I had subsequently the pleasure of fulfilling that
visit.

TWIN COMPANIONS AT NIGHT SCHOOL

Severing my connection with the school in Greengate, I
attended a night school in Fell-lane—much nearer home. This
was kept by an elderly personage known as Mr. John Tansey, and
under the guidance of that gentleman, the present Mayor of
Keighley (Alderman Ira Ickringill) and myself spent a portion of
our time in obtaining knowledge. His Worship and myself were twin
companions, I may say, being both born on the same
day—March 22nd, 1836.

AMONG THE HAND WOOLCOMBERS

I spent a good deal of time in my youth in the workshops of
the woolcombers in our locality, as, I believe, Ira Ickringill
did. Hand woolcombers, by-the-bye, were rare hands (no pun) at
telling tales, and I listened to these with great relish. With
all my boyish pranks, I was generally a favourite among the
combers. There used to be an Irishman named Peter O’Brady
who lived not far from our house. His wife was a good singer, and
what is more, she had a varied selection of good old Irish and
Scotch songs. She was occasionally good enough to sing for me.
This woman taught me the song “Shan Van Vocht,” and
other Irish Gaelic songs.

LEARNING TO BE AN ACROBAT

A visit to Pablo Franco’s circus, which came to
Keighley, led me into the belief that with a little practice I
should make a passable trapezist, or tight-rope walker. So when I
got home the first thing I did was to procure some rope &c.
With this apparatus I constructed a kind of trapeze and
tight-rope in my bed chamber. I used to practice nightly just
before jumping into bed. But my ambition was one night somewhat
damped, when I fell from the bar and hurt myself. This small
beginning ended badly for me; for my father learned that part of
his homestead had been converted into a circus; he was, or
pretended to be, greatly displeased with the discovery, and he
straightway cut down the ropes and things. Then I had to find
some other means of following up my practice. When you once start
a thing it’s always best to go on with it. So I got a lad
about the same age as myself into my confidence, and one Saturday
we resolved to have a night’s “circusing” on
our own account in a barn. We had had a fair round of trapezing,
rope walking, turning somersaults and the like—wearing
special costumes, you know, for the occasion—when in the
wee sma’ hours of the morning the old farmer, who claimed
the ownership of our circus—in other words
barn—suddenly came upon us. He had evidently heard us going
through our rehearsal. His unannounced appearance startled Jack
and myself very much indeed. The old farmer bade us in language
certainly more forcible than polite—to “Come down, ye
rascals.” Jack and I naturally hesitated a little, but that
irritated the farmer, and he said that if we wouldn’t
come down he would fork us down—he was
evidently thinking of hay-time. We two, perched on the haystack,
did not take the words at all with a kindly meaning. However, I
told Jack in an under-tone to pack up our clothes and get away,
suggesting that I would spring down and tackle the old man. Jack
obeyed and got away, and I seized the farmer and held him tightly
in a position by no means agreeable to him. He soon promised that
if I left loose he would let me go away. I released him and
doubled after Jack, finally landing at Cross Lane Ends, where
Jack was waiting for me. We put on our usual garments and
departed each on his own way. During the day I went to a
neighbour’s house. I was rather startled on seeing the old
farmer there; but exceeding glad was I when he failed to
recognise me. He was telling the family about two “young
scoundrels,” and how one had attacked him in his own barn
early that morning; he little thought that a little
“scoundrel” in that house was the
“attacker” he wished to get hold of. Little Willie
Wright could not help but smile interestingly at the old
man’s vivid description of the incident. That incident, I
may say in passing, served to mark the termination of my career
as a circus hand.

TRYING THE FIDDLE

Instrumental music next turned my head, or, more
definitely—a violin. I bought a fiddle on my own account.
Of course my father saw the instrument; if I could keep it out of
his sight I could not very well keep it out of his hearing. Then,
besides, little boys should not be deceptive. He says:
“What are you going to do with that?” I says:
“I’m going to learn to play it.” Then he asked
me where I had bought it, and I told him like a dutiful
son—“Tom Carrodus’s in Church Green.” He
summoned my mother and asked: “Mally, what dos’ta
think o’ this lot?” She—good woman—said
it was only another antic of her boy’s, and “let him
have his own way.” But my father, on the contrary, got
rather nasty about the matter, remarking that if I didn’t
take the thing away he would put it into the fire. He said he was
sure it would only turn out a public house “touch,”
and informed me that it was only one in a thousand who ever got
to be anything worth listening to. He endeavoured to impress upon
me what a nuisance the old fiddler was on the Fair Day; and
“concluded a vigorous speech” by again reminding me
that if I didn’t take the fiddle out of his sight he
would burn it. He did give me the chance to play out of his
sight; but, knowing, young as I was, that the unexpected
sometimes happens, I decided to get rid of “the
thing,” as my father was pleased to call it. Fiddle and I
parted company the very day after we came to know each other.

THE “NIGGER” BUSINESS

next fascinated me; and I induced several lads and lasses in
the village to form a “troupe.” We got up a
show—not a very showy show, but a nice little
show—and charged a reasonable sum for admission—only
a half-penny! The “company” managed, by working
together, to possess itself of a creditable wardrobe. But the
“Fell-lane Nigger Troupe” did not live long. I, for
example, began to soar a little higher, that is to the dramatic
stage; but my father evidenced the same bad grace as he did in
regard to my fiddle.

A STROLLING, ROLLICKING PLAYER

I had somehow or other scraped together close upon a couple of
hundred reprints of plays, which cost me from 6d to 2s a-piece.
He said he would have no acting in his house. I pleaded it was
only a bit of pastime; but it was all in vain, and what was more
he threw all my books on the fire. This greatly disheartened
me—I should be about 14 years old at this period;—but
though my father burned my play-books he did not quell my ardent
ambition to go on the stage. A few days after, a theatrical man,
called Tyre, visited Keighley. (Oh! how I have blessed that man!)
He advertised for some amateur performers to play in a temperance
drama of the title “The seven stages of a drunkard,”
at the old Mechanics’ Hall (until recently the Temperance
Hall). The piece was to be played nightly for a fortnight. I
mentioned to my father that I should very much like to take part
in the performance. He asked the advice of somebody or other as
to the character of the play, and being informed that it was a
temperance piece, he consented to my serving a fortnight with the
company. I applied, and was gladly accepted. The part of a
boy—a boy who, in manhood, was a drunkard—was
allotted to me. The company played for a fortnight before crowded
houses. But my stage career was not destined to end there. Tyre,
seeing that the Keighley public appreciated the efforts of his
local talent, arranged for the performance of another piece,
styled “Ambrose Guinnett.” He asked me to take a part
in that piece also, and I agreed on the spot to do so. I was put
in as a sailor, and I purchased in the Market-place a
sailor’s suit and a black wig, on
“tick”—you see I was determined to have them.
By-and-bye, it reached the ears of my father that I was going
“reight in for t’business.” However, the day
fixed for the first performance came round, and then the
performance commenced.

TRICKING POLICEMAN LEACH

The curtain had risen and all was going on nicely when on the
stage, behind the wings, appeared a policeman—a real
policeman—a policeman to the heart, into the bargain!
“Robert” turned out to be nobody else than my old
friend, Mr James Leach, now of Balmoral House, The Esplanade,
Keighley: this, I ought to mention, was my first meeting with Mr
Leach. My father it seemed, had heard definitely that I should be
acting that night, and so he had induced Police-constable Leach
(No. 5678, X division, A.1.), to look after me. Well, as I said
before, P.C. Leach came on the stage. I happened to be the first
soul he encountered. Says he to me: “Have you got a young
man here called William Wright?” [I saw he did not
“ken” me.] Says I to him: “I have not.”
Says he to me: “I want that lad, wherever he is; his father
has sent me for him, and if he won’t go home I have to take
him to the lock-up.” The last word rather frightened me;
but I managed to say to him: “To save you a deal of
trouble, sir, young Wright isn’t going to play in this
piece at all,” and, with that, directed him down the
staircase. I was allowed to go on with my acting without
interruption after that; but I hadn’t to go on the stage
another night. My parents then put their heads together to keep
me out of mischief.

MILL LIFE AND POETRY

I was packed off to Lund’s Mill—the late Mr
William Lund was at the head of the firm at the time, and
Benjamin Lamb and I became favourites with him. Mr Lund often
used to take us into the staircase at the mill, provide us with
chalk, and tell us to draw animals or anything we liked. He would
offer a prize for the best production. We had also to try our
hands at “making” poetry, and for this Mr Lund would
give rewards. Ben could generally “best” me at
drawing, but I managed to get the poetry prizes all right. One
day Ben signed teetotal, and I remember I wrote a few lines of
doggerel on the occasion. It is rather uncouth, but here it
is:—

Benjamin signed teetotal
He signed from drink and liquors;
And it gave him such an appetite
Begum he swallow’d pickers.

MAKING AND SAILING SHIPS

Ben and I also took a fancy to making various models,
especially ships. Mr Lund caught us at the job, and, taking an
interest in our work, he offered a prize for the one of us who
made the best-sailing three-rigged vessel. We made our ships and
gaily decorated them. The day fixed for the trial was regarded
with keen interest by the mill-hands. The trial trip was to take
place in the mill dam, and the banks of the dam were crowded with
workpeople. The conditions were that we should sail the ships,
with the aid of a warp thread, from the head to the foot of the
dam. And the contest began. Ben’s ship had scarcely been
launched when it upset, being side-heavy. But my ship sailed
gallantly before the breeze, right on to the finishing post. The
spectators cheered lustily; I felt very proud, I did. I got the
prize, and was made quite a “hero” of for a few days.
But they little knew the grand secret of my success. I had driven
a spindle into the keel, so as to allow it to protrude downwards
into the water; with this in it, it was almost impossible for the
ship to upset!

CHAPTER III

TO THE STAGE AGAIN

Notwithstanding the kindness which I received at the mill, I
could not settle down. I had a strong inclination to get out into
the world and see something. My ambition again returned to the
stage. I began to visit travelling theatres which came to
Keighley, staying in Townfield Gate. I joined an amateur dramatic
society, composed of Keighley people. The names of the members
were:—Arthur Bland, John Spencer, William Binns, Mark
Tetley, Thomas Smith, Thomas Kay—all of whom, I believe are
dead—and Joshua Robinson, James Lister, Sam Moore and
myself. There were also a number of females, who must be all dead
by this time. We had weekly Saturday night performances in an old
barn in Queen-street, which is now used as a warehouse by Messrs
W. Laycock & Sons, curriers. After a short course of training
in the society, Arthur Bland, John Spencer, and myself became
rather—ambitious I suppose I shall have to call
it—and joined the profession altogether. I should be about
sixteen years old; and I was about the youngest member in the
company. My companions and I joined Wild’s Travelling
Dramatic company. I was called the “juvenile,” owing
to the fact that I was the youngest member of the company. We
fulfilled engagements at Bradford, Halifax, Dewsbury, Keighley,
and other towns in the district. I considered (myself) that I
made a “rare fist” at acting, but the advice was
unsympathisingly hurled at me—“Come home to your
parents and start afresh.” Well, I took the advice, and
went home to my parents. I often think it was very good of them
to allow their errant son to come home as often as they did. I
returned to my position as a warpdresser at Lund’s mill,
being about eighteen years old at the time. Things went on very
peaceably and agreeably for another little while, but
I—just verging on the age of manhood—again felt a
strong desire to go out into the world.

OH! FOR A SAILOR’S LIFE!

I had been reading a book about the life of a sailor—how
nice it is to read about a sailor’s life!—and
got the idea that I should like to be a sailor. So, one morning I
got up betimes, when lazy people were snoring between the
blankets. I clad myself in my best suit—one of splendid
black, put on my watch, provided myself with plenty of
money—my parents were not badly off—and started in
search of a sailor’s life. It didn’t look like a very
good beginning, did it? I tramped to Leeds, and there I had
the—misfortune, I may safely say, to fall in with some of
my thespian friends. They very willingly helped me to spend my
money, so that when I left Leeds I had scarcely a penny in my
pocket. But it was, perhaps, all for the best, as things turned.
I walked to Goole, and from there to Hull. I lingered about the
docks for some time, and then I fell in with the skipper of a
vessel who was looking out for an addition to his crew. He asked
me who I was. I, of course, told him and said I should like to be
a sailor. He smiled when I said that, and said I looked more like
a tailor than a sailor. But, then, I have said all along that
appearances are deceptive, and that it isn’t always wise to
rely on the label of the bag. It was simply a matter of taste
with the skipper: he saw in me a nice chance of a suit of good
clothes, &c., if nothing else. He questioned me: “would
you run away if I took you on? You know some of you get tired of
the first voyage.” I assured him that I
wouldn’t run away, what other boys did. Whereupon it came
to pass that he said that I was a likely young fellow, and I was
engaged—I mean to the skipper, of course. I had to say a
fond “Good-bye!” to my suit of black, watch, and
other articles, and bedeck myself in a canvas suit, with red
shirt, belt, and oil-skin cap. The name of the vessel was
“The Greyhound,” and “The Greyhound” was
laden with prepared stone and bound from Hull to London. We
started. The voyage was a very rough one, and I was very, very
sick the first day. I often think of my first day’s
sailoring; I do that, I do. I was put to all manner of drudgery,
such as scrubbing the decks. The cooking for the crew also fell
into my hands; there were about a dozen of us. Fortunately, I had
no need to complain of the lack of food. There was plenty of salt
pork and biscuits; but, then, biscuits and salt pork and salt
pork and biscuits have a tendency to become a little monotonous
to the palate. I got very roughly handled by the crew. The voyage
to London occupied about six days. We stayed at the English
capital about a fortnight, in order to exchange our cargo for one
of goods suitable for the Hull trade. Even while we were moored
in the Thames, I was very anxious to make my escape, but a too
close watch was kept over me. We started on the home journey,
during which I was not affected by sea sickness.

LONGING FOR HOME AGAIN

I determined that as soon as ever I got into Hull I would make
straight for Keighley. Many a time on the vessel did I think of
Mrs Hemans’s beautiful poem “There’s no place
like home.” I shall never forget, I think, the feelings of
ecstacy with which I was seized on the vessel sailing into the
port of Hull. It was four o’ clock on a cold, dreary
December afternoon, and I could not help but cry as, going on the
quay, I heard an organ grinder giving off the strains
“Home, Sweet Home!”

Of all the spots on earth to me
Is Home, Sweet Home.
And that dear spot I long to see—
My Home, Sweet Home.
Where joyfully relations meet,
Where neighbours do each other greet.
If ought on earth there can be sweet,
’Tis Home, Sweet Home.

It seemed to me as if my father and mother were calling their
prodigal son home. I straightened myself up, and says:
“Here goes for Keighley, without a ha’penny in my
pocket:” the skipper was not by any means kind-hearted, and
did not give me even an “honorarium.” But my troubles
were not by any means past and gone: many who read these lines
will, I trow, know what it is to tramp a long distance with a
purse, as Carlyle said, “so flabby that it could scarcely
be thrown against the wind.” My trudge from Hull to
Bradford seemed beset with thorny places.

TRAMPING AND ADVENTURING

Leaving Hull, I walked all night in stormy, winterly weather,
and before morning I was on the near bank of Howden Dyke. There
was a ferry at the dyke, and, not having the wherewithal to pay
the toll, I had to stay where I was—about three miles from
Goole. As I afterwards learned, I had gone about eight miles out
of the right road. I loitered about for a short time. Then a
farmer, with a horse and cart, chanced to come along. I unfolded
my tale to him, and he took pity on me; he said he was allowed to
take a man with his horse and cart, besides himself, and I could
go over as the man. And in this way I crossed over on the
ferry, which was a sort of raft. When I got into Howden—it
was now early morning—it turned out to be the Fair Day. So
I wended my way into the fair-ground, thinking that possibly I
might meet with some of my former theatrical acquaintances at
some of the shows. But I was a doomed man: there were none. There
was any number of wild beast shows, fat women shows, art
galleries, pea saloons, with the ubiquitous Aunt Sarah, but of
“mumming” shows there were none. When I was in this
low pitch of despondency, a flashly-clad individual walked up to
me and asked me what I was. Being a truthful sort of a
lad, if nothing else, I told him I was “all sorts,”
but had been doing a “bit o’ sailoring” last.
He said he kept a boxing show, and asked if I had done anything
in the noble defence line. I had to confess that I had done a
little at home, with towels round my hands. “Oh (says he)
I’ll teach you how to box in twenty minutes. I’ll
introduce you to the public, and if there is any big farmer to
tackle I’ll tackle him; and I have got a little
black man who will stand up for you. I want a man to p’rade
outside the show, you know, and you look a likely fellow.”
After this magnificent speech, how could I but take the job? I
did so. Seeing that I had not been over-fed lately, he treated me
to a loaf and coffee: that these were welcome I need hardly
chronicle; they were decidedly welcome. After a good
night’s sleep, the next day I was dressed for the occasion.
The fair-ground was thronged with people from far and near. A big
crowd collected in front of our show. I p’raded on
the platform outside the show, and the proprietor announced that
I was a champion boxer, and that I would “set to”
with any man in the whole fair! Some men would have felt honoured
at this, but I didn’t. The announcement fairly made me
tremble, and I should have been very thankful to drop through the
boards. But I had to stay where I was. Fortunately nobody came
forward, and the only “set to” I had to have was with
the little black man. The show commenced, and we went inside; of
course we had only exhibition games. One night produced 7s 6d for
me. But I had no more sense than spend my money on a number of
showmen who had gathered together, as was their wont, in a
drinking-saloon on the fair-ground after the night’s
business. Therefore I was as bad as before. I left the show, and
began my walk to Selby. There were two toll bars on the way, at
which passengers had each a penny to pay to get through. But I
hadn’t a penny and at the first “break” the
keeper asked me if I had got a “knife or owt.” I
couldn’t boast the possession of either of these. A
cotton-hawker chanced to come by and he took pity on me and paid
my toll. He reminded me there was another toll-bar about 7 miles
further on, and said he was sorry he could not go forward with
me, because he had some calls to make by the way.
Notwithstanding, I trudged on, and when I got to the second
“break” Fortune again smiled upon me; for I came upon
a kind-hearted lady, who, when she became acquainted with my
position, gave me a sixpence. This coin got me to Selby. From
Selby I made to York. Late in the afternoon it began to rain
heavily; so I called at a roadside inn for shelter. In the inn I
found seated a company of hunting gentlemen, wearing their bright
apparel. They had evidently been driven inside by the wet
weather. One of them espied me and conducted me into the room.
They chaffed me very much, and one asked me whether I would have
a glass of brandy or sixpence. I said I should prefer the
sixpence. He said: “Well, if you had said the brandy, I
should have given you neither; now you shall have both.”
And it so happened that I got two things with one asking. Well,
after the shower had ceased I resumed my journey, and tramped all
night. I wanted, and still I did not want, to get home—you
understand me? Next morning I got into York. I had hoped to find
a travelling theatre staying there, but the theatre had the day
previously moved on to Ripon. Then did I determine to try my hand
at earning an honest penny somehow. I had done a little at
chalk-drawing. I thought I might become a street artist; so I
accordingly got on to the city wall at the top of a flight of
steps near the Castle. On the pavement, in chalk and charcoal, I
drew bold likenesses of our good lady the Queen and Prince
Albert. I sat there on the wall, waiting for passers-by to throw
me a copper. I had not waited long when a party of ladies and
gentlemen—apparently visitors, like your humble
servant—came up. They surveyed my production; then one of
the gentlemen threw me a shilling, and the rest made a collection
which they presented to me, and for which I thanked them from the
bottom of my heart. I did not wait for a second batch of patrons,
but straightway turned my back upon York. I had abandoned the
idea I at one time entertained of going to Ripon, with the
intention of joining the theatrical company there; and the next
move was to get to Bradford. So I walked on to Bradford. I was
“fairly jiggered up” when I got to that
town—one Thursday afternoon I recollect it was. I made up
my mind to go to the office of the Keighley firm of Messrs
William Lund & Son, for whom I had done a little work. I was
scarcely in a presentable condition, travel-stained as I was.
After some demur I obtained permission to wash and
“tidy” myself at a tavern, and this carried out, I
made for Messrs Lunds’ office.

THE PRODIGAL RETURNS HOME

Mr James Lund happened to be there. He was not a little
surprised to see me, and wanted to know all particulars as to my
wanderings. I offered an explanation as best I could. Mr Lund
provided me with refreshment, which I badly needed, and paid my
railway fair to Keighley. When I got into this “Golden
Valley of the West Riding,” as Keighley has been called, I
had no little difficulty in getting to my home at the North Beck
Mills. My feet were intensely sore with my long tramp, and I
could scarcely put one before the other—which, of course,
is a necessary performance if one wants to walk anywhere.
However, I reached home in time—after an absence of
something like nine months. I was received there with all the
welcome it was possible for a prodigal son to be. My mother said
she dreamed the night before I was coming home. I don’t
exaggerate facts much when I say there were great rejoicings in
the camp at my home-coming. Of course, with paternal regard, my
father wanted to know where I had been, and, when I had given him
a hurried account of my peregrinations, he strongly recommended
me to “jump into a peggytubful o’ water an’ hev
a wesh.” I accordingly executed the order of the bath, and
donned a suit of clothes, which I had left behind me. My father
said, “Well, I don’t want them to lose anything by
you at Hull;” and with those few, but expressive remarks,
he took my sailor’s suit and pitched it into the North
Beck—which ran near by our homestead. I regret I have no
proof before me that the clothes ever reached Hull. But we will
let byegones be byegones. I was put back to warp-dressing at
North Beck Mills, where I remained for a few months.

LOOKING FOR A TRADE

Then my father determined that I should have a trade of some
sort. I began to have a little taste for sculpture in a primitive
kind of way, and I used to smuggle big stones into my
bed-chamber, and, when opportunity offered, try to carve figures,
busts, &c., out of them, with tools which, I must confess,
were far from having a razor’s edge on them. My father came
to know of my efforts in this line, and he and my mother held a
confab, the result of which was that I was apprenticed to an
uncle of mine, a mason named Joshua Hill, of Harden. I remained
at this business for a fair time and helped my uncle to build
Ryecroft Primitive Methodist Chapel. He gave me every opportunity
to become efficient in my new calling if practice goes for
anything. When I pass the chapel at Ryecroft I look with some
amount of pride on the two stoops, enclosing the door, which I
hewed out. After finishing the chapel my uncle Joshua commenced
the erection of a tavern, called the “Moorcock,” at
Harden. But in my new situation my pocket-money was very limited.
I didn’t appreciate this limitation, and I left the service
of my uncle and went to Bingley.

ADVENTURING WITH THE SHOWS

It happened to be the Tide, and going into the Gas Field I
fell in with the proprietor of a travelling theatre, a Frenchman,
rejoicing in the name of “Billy Shanteney.” He asked
me to join his company, which I eventually did. At night, before
the performance commenced, I paraded on the platform outside as a
gay spangled warrior, and while thus engaged I was somewhat
astonished to behold my uncle Joshua making his way to what
seemed the entrance, but he darted on to me and attempted to drag
me, as he himself said, “back home.” However, I
didn’t go back home, and we went on with the performance.
At the close of the Tide week, the company went to Idle, and I
went with them; and thence to the Bradford Fairground. It goes
without saying that when Bill o’th’ Hoylus End was
playing as a king one night and next morning getting a red
herring to his breakfast, there was something radically wrong
somewhere. Still I had a hearty reverence for the “silvery
fish,” as will be apparent from the sentiments in the
following

ODE TO A HERRING

Wee silvery fish, who nobly braves
The dangers o’ the ocean waves,
While monsters from the unknown caves
Make thee their prey,
Escaping which the human knaves
On thee lig way.
No doubt thou was at first designed
To suit the palates of mankind;
Yet as I ponder now, I find
Thy fame is gone,
With dainty dish thou art behind
With every one.

If through thy pedigree we peep,
Philosophy from thee can reap,
To me I need not study deep
There’s nothing foreign,
For I, like thee, am sold too cheap,
My little herring!

CHAPTER IV

PLAYING THE CLOWN AND EVADING THE IMPOSSIBLE

I left the employ of my friend the Frenchman, and joined
“Mother” Beach’s “grand theatrical
combination.” The business was formerly owned by Mr Beach,
and at his death the widow undertook the management of the
concern, with assistance from her son William, whose stage
cognomen was “Little Billy Beach.” Mr Beach, junior,
was a better class comedian. The company consisted of, in
addition to the last-named, Tom Smith, Jonas Wright, Edward Tate,
Jack Buckley, John Spencer, Arthur Bland and myself, and a
quartette of ladies, viz.—”Bella,” afterwards
Mrs William Beach; Ann Tracey, afterwards Mrs John Spencer; and
Mrs Wright and “Mother” Beach, who were sisters.
Certainly not a very powerful company as regards numbers! We
visited such towns as Batley, Adwalton, Gomersal, &c. Well do
I remember being with the company at the Roberttown Races. Races
were not actually run there at the time of our visit, but they
had been, and the name was kept up. It was really the Feast or
Tide, for which Roberttown was somewhat notorious, and the old
race course was used for the fair ground. There was a
conglomeration of scores of twopenny circuses, penny
“gaffs”, round-abouts, swings, cocoa-nut shies,
shooting ranges, &c. People flocked from far and near to the
Fair. Our company made a great “hit.” It was the
custom for a few of us, myself included, to promenade in front of
the assembled crowd, in “full dress,” and then, after
we had executed a picturesque Indian dance, the manager would
strongly recommend the people to “Come forward, ladies and
gentlemen, the show’s just a-going to begin.” The
performance consisted of a short play, a comic song by
“Billy,” and a portion of the pantomime, “Jack
and the Beanstalk,” the whole lasting under half-an-hour.
We gave about a score performances a day: it was very hard work,
and, what was more, hot weather. I don’t want to figure in
these pages as a champion boozer—for I know that the
Herald is a warm advocate of temperance
principles;—but it is nevertheless a fact that one hot day
I drank no less than three shillings’ worth of
“shandy-gaff,” at a penny per pint. It was dry work I
can tell you, and made a dry stomach. Just before the close of
the fair, strangely enough, there was a split in our ranks owing
to the “matron” having engaged new blood, in the
shape of three fellows—Harry McMillan, Tom Harding, and
Paddy Crotty—who were to play the leading parts. It has
always been said that much jealousy exists among the theatrical
profession, and jealousy existed and caused an
“eruption” among us. We had a “regular
rumpus,” and Spencer, Buckley, and myself seceded and
“set up” on our own account. In the evening of the
very day of the upheaval, we made a pitch on the greensward
opposite to the theatre we had seceded from. Spencer, I ought to
mention here, was “the great man of strength;”
Buckley, the “marvellous jumper;” while I myself
filled a double role—being both the “clown” and
“cashier” of the establishment. The latter is
generally a safe post to hold. Spencer would willingly allow a
stone to be broken on his chest with a sledge hammer, bend bars
of iron across his arm, and the like; and Buckley would volunteer
to jump over as many as five boat horses. But now it comes to
myself. I have to confess I was always rather backward at coming
forward. Suffice it to say that I didn’t make a bad clown;
which, perhaps, is not so much to be wondered at seeing that I
was said to have been “born so.” Our entertainment
took immensely. We removed to Skelmanthorpe, near Denby Dale,
where we put the inhabitants into a state of great excitement. On
a large board we writ in chalk that on such a night we would
“give a wonderful entertainment” in the backyard of
the tavern at which we were staying; John Spencer, the great man
of strength, would pull against five horses, and as a grand
finale, Jack Buckley would jump over five horses, and a
cab thrown in. I, albeit the poor clown, saw that this was a
gigantic fraud, and, fearing unpleasant consequences, I cast
about for some scheme to make our position safe. I arranged with
a policeman, by putting half-a-crown into his hand (from behind,
of course) for him to show himself in the backyard just as that
part of the performance was commencing, and solemnly pretend to
stop the performance in the course of duty. Well, the
entertainment was begun before a crowded “house,” and
when the particular part in question was coming off, Mr
Policeman, true to his promise, stepped forward, and said he
would not see anybody killed. Spencer had got ready to draw
against one horse when he was interfered with by the
gentleman in blue—good soul! There’s many a warm
heart beats beneath blue cloth and plated buttons. The audience
took as gospel the interference on the part of the law, and duly
dispersed after witnessing other “harmless” portions
of the entertainment.

CLOWNS AT A DISCOUNT

Next morning we were up betimes and on our way to Halifax,
where we knew it was the Fair Day. We had an inkling that we
might be able to engage ourselves at some of the shows. And so it
came to pass. Spencer re-engaged with Wild’s, and Buckley
got a situation at Pablo Franco’s. But clowns were at a
discount.

SEEKING AND FINDING

However, there happened to be on the Fair Ground the
proprietress of a new theatre. She was in search of
“talent”—you know what I mean—eh? Oh,
yes! The theatre was a wooden one, in Barnsley. It was not quite
finished, but would be ready for opening in a week or so, and the
old lady—“Virgin Mary,” I believe she was
commonly called—wanted to get a company together in time
for the opening. She fully explained matters to me, and, as a
result I was engaged—that is to say I was professionally
engaged by her.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

She, of course, saw the whole of my personal belongings at
first sight. And it is often said that first impressions are
lasting. She paid my railway fare and gave me a
“lift” of half-a-crown, and also mentioned, by the
way, that I might walk over to Barnsley if I liked and expend the
amount of the fare on myself. With this understanding we parted
company. Next morning I started for my new sphere of life,
deciding to utilise

SHANKS’ PONY

It was a glorious morning. When I set off, my feet were
encased in a pair of high Wellington boots, but as I walked along
one of the boots began to pinch my foot very badly, so I stopped
somewhere between Halifax and Brighouse and changed the offensive
boot for one of my stage pumps.

THE GREEN BAG

The Wellington I deposited in my green bag, which by the way,
contained my stage “properties,” to wit, tights,
tunics, and the like. About this time I was overtaken by a man
who would have me believe he had seen me before somewhere. I
didn’t like the look of that man a bit. He told me he was
walking to Sheffield and would have no objections to accompanying
me as far as I was going. I should liked to have told him that I
was of opinion that “one’s company, two’s
none,” yet his request of itself was not in any way a
peculiar one. So we jogged on together for some time. He noticed
that I limped somewhat, and in consideration thereof, I, on his
invitation, allowed him to carry my green bag—my only
belongings—my all. We chatted very pleasantly on the road,
and it was agreed, with no dissentient, that I should call at the
first tavern we came to in Brighouse, and do a bit of busking. He
said he did not care to call at the tavern, seeing that he was so
shabbily dressed: he would wait at the other end of the
town. Of course I took in all he said as gospel, or the next
approaching it. I entered the first tavern that hove insight, he
promising to “stay about.”

ENTERTAINING STRANGERS

There was a “druffen Scotchman” in the house, and
as soon as he became aware that I had read much about the Land
o’ Cakes and Barley, he showed a kind of rapturous paternal
affection for me. When he learned that I could “recite a
wee bit,” his delight knew no bounds. I recited several
pieces for the entertainment of the company, such as “Young
Lochinvar” and “Jock o’ Hazeldean,” and
they rewarded me with fifteen pence for my efforts, besides
treating me to some light refreshment.

THE BAG MYSTERY

But I became anxious to join my travelling companion, whom I
had left waiting outside—or who had left me waiting for
him. So I bade the company “Adieu!” and quitted the
tavern; but loo! my anonymous friend had vanished like a
vision from my sight. I searched for him high and low in the
“publics” at “the other end of the town,”
but all in vain. Meanwhile it had begun to dawn upon me that the
stranger wasn’t my friend at all. What greatly
disheartened me was to know that he had my green bag, containing
my stock-in-trade, in his possession wherever he was. This was a
great blow to me. Having satisfied myself that he was not in
Brighouse I pushed on my journey. I asked each person I met if he
had seen a man with a green bag, but none of them seemed to
remember having seen either a green bag or a man carrying one of
those articles. I now began to think I was truly on my
“last legs.”

AT WARP-DRESSING AGAIN

But I did not utterly forget the sentiment of
Shakespeare—“There is a tide in the affairs of men
which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” I stayed
the night at a little village called Kirkburton, and the
following morning I walked to Clayton West. Here, I found out, a
good deal of fancy weaving was carried on; and, looking at my
case from all its bearings, I came to the conclusion that it was
advisable for me to abandon my theatrical career, for the present
at least, and try my hand at warp-dressing again. This was duly
resolved upon. Accordingly, I applied at a factory at Clayton
West, belonging I believe, to Mr Norton. I got employment without
much trouble: luckily they were in want of a “man
o’my sort.”

A MINISTERING ANGEL

I started work at noon and worked during the dinner-hour. The
first of the hands to return from dinner was a good-looking young
wench, a twister-in. She thoughtfully asked if I had had my
dinner. Of course I didn’t think I had, as it was too far
to go home to it. “Oh! but you shall have some
dinner” says the big-hearted factory-lass; “for
I’ll go home and bring you something.” “Thank
you,” said I, and she was gone. But not for long; not many
minutes elapsed before she was by my side with a big jug of
coffee and a goodly-sized, appetising, real Yorkshire pasty, the
size of an oven-tin or thereabouts. I don’t want to go into
fractions, besides, it isn’t at all necessary. Suffice it
to say that I presented her with my heart felt thanks.

As to the repast itself—well I enjoyed that with much
warmth, as we sometimes say. Then I resumed the work which had
been set out for me, and finished by five o’clock in the
afternoon. There I left off until next morning. I had obtained in
advance a few shillings to tide me over the night.

CHAPTER V

“T’OTHER LODGER!”

I went in search of lodgings about the village. In the end I
came across an old lady, and, after I had had a consultation with
her on the above-mentioned subject, she said she could take me in
as a lodger if I cared to sleep with another lodger she
had—a young butcher: if I was in by eleven o’clock,
she assured me, I should be all right. I accepted her offer.
Sometime before eleven o’clock, the “other
lodger” came home. He was not by any means what Keighley
teetotallers would term a “temperate, upright, law-abiding
citizen,” for he was as drunk as a pig. When he heard that
I was to be his bed-fellow, oh! there was a “shine,”
and no mistake. He vehemently declared that he’d never
“lig” with me; and, under the circumstances, I
sustained his objection, and we parted. Tired and weary as I was
I felt that I could well spare all I possessed if only I could
get the use of a bed:—

AMONG THE IRISH

However, the butcher and I parted company. I went back to the
tavern I had been resting at, and explained matters to the
landlady and her good master. He did not receive me very
acceptably, and told me that he “could sleep on a
clothes-line this weather.” I didn’t like to
contradict him. His wife rather pitied me, and said there were
half-a-dozen harvesters in the taproom and I might arrange to
spend the night with them. Acting on the principle that
half-a-loaf is better than no bread, I allowed the landlord to
introduce me to the company in the taproom. The company consisted
of half-a-dozen Irish harvesters “on the spree.”
“Can you take this man as a lodger?” asks the
landlord. “Oh, yes, if he behaves himself,” one
readily exclaimed, and another chimed in, “If he
doesn’t, be jabers! we’ll mak’ him.” I
fully ingratiated myself into their good graces for the night by
“standing a gallon round.” I took part in the general
amusement, and sang for them the song, “Shan Van
Vocht,” in Irish Gaelic, until they all swore I was a
countryman of theirs. The night wore on with song and clatter,
And ah! the ale was growing better.

THE BARN DORMITORY—THE FIRE

Sometime late at night we retired to rest—or to try to
rest. The prospective scene of our slumbers was a barn at the
back of the tavern. By the light of a candle we had with us, I
saw there was a depth of almost twelve inches of straw on the
floor of the barn. One of our lot fixed the candle on a
projecting stone in the wall, and I guess it was not long before
we were all asleep. I could not have been asleep long, however,
when I was awakened by great noise and unbearable heat. On
“turning over,” I heard groans and shouts, and, by
Jove! saw that the barn was on fire! I was dumbfounded for the
instant, and scarce knew how to act. Being greatly fatigued by my
previous day’s journey, I was not over wideawake; I was by
no means the first to awake; in fact I believe I was the last. I
had taken my coat and boot and slipper off, but there was no time
to look for any of my apparel, and when I recovered my senses, I
beat a hasty retreat.

MY ESCAPE FROM THE FIRE

It’s always a safe plan to look before you leap. I
didn’t look before I leaped, with the result that jumping
through a loophole in the wall at the rear of the barn, I found
myself on alighting outside with the star-bespangled firmament
above me, and—what do you think under me—I hardly
like to say, but nevertheless it was a manure heap! I was
booked to remain in this—perhaps more healthy than
agreeable—predicament for some time; for, despite my
struggles to regain liberty of thought and action, I could not
extricate myself.

HOW THE PEOPLE RECEIVED ME

Meanwhile, the alarm of fire had been given, and a number of
people from the neighbourhood appeared, in response, on the
scene. I could not see them, being at the rear of the building,
but could hear their shouts. The half-dozen Irishmen, I
afterwards learned, all answered the roll-call, but I was
missing. On this occasion, if it had never occurred before or
since, my absence caused indescribable consternation. Many
thought I had been burned to death or killed, for the roof of the
barn had fallen in. After some little time, however, and after
much struggling on my part, I was able to allay their fears by
appearing before them. It required no small amount of
pluck—as I call it—to face them—bootless,
coatless, vestless, hatless, penniless, and, withal, with my feet
and trousers besmeared with cow dung. But there is a time in
every man’s life when he shall come to evoke sympathy from
his fellows. “He’s coming!” they said,
“Here he is!” they shouted, and as I passed along the
ranks I was the object of universal sympathy in my woe-bestricken
condition.

A CHATTY, QUIZZY, KINDLY POLICEMAN

A policeman came up to me and said they thought I was in the
flames. I rashly told him that I might as well have been,
considering my appearance. “Oh, you will get over
that,” said the gentleman in blue cloth. “Where do
you belong to?” I said I was a native of Keighley.
“Who is your police superintendent?” he queried.
“Mr Cheeseborough,” I replied. “That’s
true,” he said. “Know you any in the force
there?” “Yes,” I said, “I know Sergeant
Kershaw, and another little ill-natured dog, Jack o’ Marks.
Jack goes about in plainclothes, and is about as fly as a box of
monkeys.” “All right,” returned Mr Policeman.
“Now that you have told me the truth, were any of you
smoking in the barn?” “No, we were all asleep,”
said I. Then he said that would do, and as he had no orders to
arrest me, I could go—till further orders. I learned from
him that Mr Norton—the gentleman for whom I had been
working at the mill—owned the barn, but he was away and
would not be home that day.

THE RESULT OF THE FIRE

The merciless fiend did its work, and before the arrival of
anything worthy the designation “fire extinguishing
apparatus,” the barn had been razed. A farmhouse joined up
to the barn, and a portion of this building, along with some of
the furniture, was damaged. The morn was now breaking, and there
was the usual gathering of quizzing onlookers. It turned out that
I was the last man out of the barn. Some of my bed-fellows, I
found, were as guilty as myself in disregarding the force of the
proverb “Look before you leap,” for one of them, in
making his hurried exit, jumped through the first opening he came
across to find himself in the stables—“in a manger
for his bed.” Through the fall he sustained a broken arm.
One or two of the others were a little hurt.

CLOTHING THE NAKED

But to return to myself. As I said a short time ago my person
carried no other covering than a pair of trousers, and these were
almost worse than nothing in their present condition. If my
friend Isaac had been about, his second-hand clothes shop (for no
“monish”) would have come as a boon and a blessing. I
didn’t ken him, however. But a cloth weaver thoughtfully
came up to me and put it to the crowd, “Nah, weear can
t’poor beggar goa in a staate like this?” “Aye,
aye,” says my friend the policeman; “An’ if ye
hev a heart in yer belly, ye’ll get him some clothes, for
I’m sure he’s spokken t’truth ta me.”
Upon this “fetching” speech, several persons in the
crowd were observed to leave by the “back way.” In a
very short time they returned, each bringing some part of a
man’s wearing apparel. Together, they brought the different
items I was minus. There were waistcoats and to spare. For
this display of kindness to a fellow in distress, I thanked them
heartily. Having attired myself, I walked away with the
policeman, who proved a true friend to me. He thoughtfully
mentioned that if I stayed in the place there was a probability I
should be arrested on a charge of “sleeping out.” So
I took the hint so kindly offered me, and after bidding my friend
“Robert” a cordial good-bye, I made my exit from
Clayton West.

ON THE WAY TO BARNSLEY

I was only about eight miles from Barnsley, and I decided to
make for that town, cutting across the fields. I passed the
house, I remember, where the father of Bosco, (best known as
“Curley Joe”), the famous conjuror, was born. I
walked into Barnsley about eight o’clock the same morning.
After weighing the matter over in my mind, I sought out and made
for the wooden theatre in connection with which I had accepted an
engagement at Halifax the week previous.

A FRESH RIG-OUT

I saw the old lady, but she would not believe at first that I
was the actor she had engaged. I related my wanderings and
troubles, but with a’ that it occupied some time to
convince her that I was the man. When she did come round a
bit, she taunted me that I had sold my clothes for drink.
However, we came to terms, and I was “put on.”
By-and-bye, she sent me to a second-hand clothes shop, where I
rigged myself out in a sort of la-di-dah style, my habiliments
comprising a pair of white linen trousers, a double-breasted
frock coat, with military peak cap, and a few other little
accessories, so that I was a perfect (or imperfect) swell again,
despite the fact that my wardrobe did not amount in value to more
than 5s of lawful British money.

FROM THEATRE TO POLICE COURT

The theatre had been completed in my absence, and, indeed,
temporarily opened. Of course, I took part in the performances.
We could usually draw full “houses,” which were
largely made up of colliers and their wives and children. But
very soon some of the boys and girls of colliers wanted to go to
the theatre oftener than their parents wished, and to this end,
it was surmised, carried on a series of petty thefts to enable
them to raise the admission fee. In fact, thieving in the town
got to such a pitch that the police authorities interfered, and
when the licensing sessions were held they opposed the renewal of
the theatre license. The proprietress of the theatre, and the
company, along with myself, had to appear at the sessions. I had
not been in the court very long when my kind benefactor, the
policeman from Clayton West, came up to me and shook me by the
hand. His sudden intrusion on my confused senses somewhat upset
me, for I was afraid of the sight of him;—his parting words
to me, after the fire at the barn, that I might be charged with
“wandering abroad without any visible means of
subsistence,” crossed my scattered thoughts. But it was
needless fear, for he soon showed me that he was still my friend,
not my foe. After we had exhausted the usual preliminaries, I
questioned him on the subject of the fire at the barn.
“Oh,” said he, “You needn’t be at all
afraid about the fire. When Mr Norton came home he took it all in
very good part. He was especially pleased when we told him that
no lives had been lost. You were mentioned as having worked
half-a-day at the mill, and he said he would much rather that you
had gone on with your work.” But a stop was put to our
conversation, for our “case” was called on.
Superintendent Burke—I mark him now—stood up and
denounced the theatre in the interests of the community. He
instanced several cases of petty thefts committed by juveniles
for the purpose of raising money to go to our theatre. The
presiding magistrate—Mr Taylor, I believe his name
was—heard all the evidence which was brought against us,
and then said that he was very sorry that anyone should go to the
expense of putting up a theatre in Barnsley and then be unable to
get a license to carry it on. He said he would allow us to
continue our performances a fortnight longer, provided admission
was refused to children. The decision fairly upset “Virgin
Mary.” She thanked “Your Worship” as she stood
in the box; but in the green room at her theatre she invoked the
gods for vengeance on the court—and this in real dramatic
style into the bargain. The last day of the fortnight came round.
It was a Saturday night, and we were playing “Uncle
Tom’s Cabin” as a finalé. This was a
comparatively new production at the time, and we had a packed
house. At the close of the performance our spokesman thanked the
people for their patronage, and explained why we were going to
depart from their midst. He promised that the proprietress would
“try again” at some future time.

A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE

The old lady paid off her company that night, and each of us
was not a little astonished—not to mention pleased—to
find his or her emolument 4s in advance of expectations. This was
explained to be an “honorarium.” Some of the company
promised to return when the theatre re-opened, if that should
ever come to pass, but I did not promise to do so; I was
determined to retire from the stage, being now what I considered
“tolerably well off.” I obtained permission to sleep
in the theatre for the night. Before laying me down, I told the
watchman to

“Call me early, watchman dear!”

But my parting with the theatre and stage life was not
destined to be an agreeable one by any means. I made a shake-down
bed on the stage, and “lay down my weary head.” It
would be about midnight when I heard a rustling at the drop
scene. In a few moments the scene commenced to rise, being rolled
up by an unseen hand, and when it had been raised a few inches I
was not a little “struck” to see a man’s head
appearing underneath the curtain. Now this was a bit of real,
earnest acting—none of your unnatural, unfinished style. It
was so realistic that I scarce knew what to do. I, of course,
first of all concluded that I was going to be robbed, or that
something of much more consequence to myself was going to take
place. The curtain was slowly and noislessly drawn up—it
went higher and higher, until the human head which had at first
appeared developed into a human body—a man. My nocturnal
visitor wriggled through the opening onto my side of the stage.
Fortunately I had by my side my walking-stick. Quickly and
quietly I seized that weapon of defence, and before the stranger
would have had time—had he even desired—to say
“Jack Robinson,” I had dealt him a splendid blow on
the side of the head with the stick. He groaned and rolled over,
getting to the other side of the curtain. Then he resumed the
perpendicular and took to his heels, without offering a word of
explanation on the matter. I feel no qualm in saying that his
exit was more hasty than his approach. I tried to think who my
intruder could be, and my thoughts fixed upon the man who had
been told off that night to commence watching the theatre.

RETURNING HOME

There was no more sleep for me that night, after the
fore-going. I prepared myself, and in the early morning quitted
the place where I spent a very pleasant part of my theatrical
life. In the street I came across a policeman on his
beat—not the one from Clayton West this time. I wished him
“Good morning,” and passed on. From Barnsley I walked
to Wakefield, and thence to Bradford, forward to Keighley by
train.

A RECOLLECTION OF KEAN, THE ACTOR

On my way to Keighley, I could not but turn over in my mind
the thoughts relating to the friendships formed on the stage, or
in connection therewith. I remember that one of the Barnsley
company was an aged actor, Mr John Copeland. He interested
himself very much in me, and gave me from time to time good
advice. He told me to leave the stage, and take to some more
reliable and permanent employment. He pictured himself as a
result of sticking closely to the profession, saying he had had
more than half-a-century of experience of its ups and downs. In
his old age, though he loved the stage and warmly praised the art
of acting, he held that the rewards were not commensurate to the
skill employed, and that when these were forthcoming the
temptations were so insidious as to be ruinous unless the moral
atmosphere of the profession itself was purified. The old
man’s ideal was high and he was fond of saying that with
all its defects—defects which were largely caused by the
professionals themselves—the drama and the art of
portraying it would last as long as human nature. I was drawn to
the old man, and felt for him. I often took his part, especially
where he had to appear in a gross character. At his time of life,
he did not like to blacken his face, and on one occasion when we
were playing “Uncle Tiff,” the old man was grateful
because I relieved him of that character. It was a pathetic
part—a sort of nigger being left in charge of children
after the parents’ death. Old Copeland was a good actor,
and he told me of having travelled with Edmund Kean, the great
tragedian. He was then about eighty years of age, and was brimful
of anecdote and humour about men and things on the stage. He
himself was an author of many MS. plays, and the most agreeable
of company, being an educated man. But we had to part company as
I have already stated, and I went home, pondering over his
advice. Now, my pen writes these lines descriptive somewhat of
the breaking apart from those noble hearts, and that still more
noble art of the drama.

Thespis, O! Thespis, founder of that noble
art,
Thou didst convey thy actors in a cart;
But here the simple Thespian has to pad,
And, though it makes his heart feel sad
To leave his friends so far behind—
Such friendship never more he’ll find,
Yet adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu!
Companions noble, poor and few!

This, I think, marks the completion of my connection with the
stage world, and I cannot but feel that those who have scanned
these few recollections of mine will have found them something
more than an uneventful and cut-and-dried story.

CHAPTER VI

MARIONETTES AT INGROW—AN AMUSING STORY

By this time my appetite for “seeing the world”
had got somewhat satisfied, and I stayed at home for a while. I
happened to become acquainted with a man of the name of Howard,
who went under the nick-name of Harlequin Dick. By trade he was a
wood-carver, and a first-class hand at his job. He was a
Liverpool man, and during his stay in Keighley he did
wood-carving for many firms in the district. Then he was taken
into tow by old James Illingworth (now deceased), who ran the
Worth Valley Chair Works, at Ingrow, opposite the Worth Valley
Hotel. A new stone building now occupies the place of the old
structure. Now my friend Howard’s great hobby was making
marionettes, and performing with them; and of these Lilliputian
mummers he made a set, and then discussed ways and means for
appearing with them in public. I was by him put into the
trinitarian post of scenic artist, advance agent, and stage
manager. It devolved upon me to draw up the advertisements. We
had some capital wall posters, each figure—its
capabilities, recommendations, &c.—being graphically
described in rhyme; yes, it was a remarkable bill—so
remarkable that parties interested in other marionette shows
appropriated its contents for their own shows. When all the
paraphernalia were ready, we went round to various schools in the
town and neighbourhood, giving entertainments to the school
children. I remember one occasion—yes; I shall never forget
it—when we exhibited our show in St. John’s
school-room, Ingrow. The Rev Mr Mayne was then the vicar of St.
John’s, and he allowed us to have a night with the
children. Well, we removed a partition in the school-room
dividing the boys’ from the girls’ department, and
made a sort of shake-down stage at one end of the room, and with
a scene and proscenium the place looked like a pretty little
theatre. There was a crowded audience for our performance,
including the vicar and Mrs Mayne, the curate of St. John’s
(who, by-the-way, was a coloured gentleman), Mr John Butterfield,
brother of Mr H. I. Butterfield, of Cliffe Castle, and, indeed, a
good many of the elite of the district. The show opened:
the curtain was rung up. The first part was a representation of
“The Babes in the Wood,” which went very smoothly,
and appeared to suit the general taste of the spectators. Then
followed a “skeleton dance,” and next we gave with
the puppets an amusing harlequinade by clown, pantaloon, and
butterfly. Yes, and here the real fun of the evening came in. The
butterfly took a great deal of catching. Mr Howard and his good
lady and myself were leaning over a rail (behind the scenes, of
course) near the front of the stage, energetically working the
strings of the figures, when, without any warning, the stage
front gave way, and we (still energetically working the figures)
were thrown right into the auditorium. Talk about tumbling head
over heels! Why, words would only belittle this part of our
“performance.” Suffice it to say that the wreckage
just cleared the front seat, on which the Vicar and his good lady
and friends were sitting.

OUR HUMPTY-DUMPTY SITUATION

was so irresistibly humorous that Mr Mayne burst into a fit of
laughter, and, taking up his hat, he left the room, followed
shortly after by his wife and the curate, and shortly afterwards
by Mr John Butterfield, who, I may say, seemed to enjoy the
accident far better than the legitimate performance. The audience
roared and roared again with laughter, and, speaking for myself,
I can say that I felt “jolly queer.” We had only, as
it were, pitched the stage together, making it by placing one
form above another. Fortunately the people present took the
unlooked-for incident in good part, and with a little assistance
we managed to improvise another stage, and upon this we went
through a little more of our “show.”

AT ADDINGHAM FEAST—A JOKE THAT TOOK

Before we ventured upon a further public appearance with the
“dolls” we provided the show with better equipments.
These included a tent, which, along with a magic-lantern, we
bought for a trifling matter from a travelling photographer who
went by the name of Old Kalo. The first of our second series of
entertainments took place at Addingham, where, it being the
Feast, we did very brisk “biz.” During one of the
intervals between the performances, I remember a gentleman coming
in and asking me, “Do you think you could study a few lines
for me, and introduce them into your play?” “What are
they about?” said I. Then my visitor told me that he
“had got a little fellow, Jacky Demaine, of Catgill, in the
public house opposite, and wanted me to talk about him during the
acting.” I agreed to carry out his wishes, and my worthy
friend, Howard, and I, having been supplied with the
“matter,” commenced to rehearse the scene we had
prepared expressly for Jacky. There were two figures strutting
about the stage. “Good morning, Mr Catgill” said one
of them. “Why, you are smart this morning.”
“Well, you know it is Addingham Feast,” was the reply
of the other figure. “Are you in want of a
sweetheart?” “No,” said Jacky’s double;
“I came here to buy some cattle.” Upon this the real
Jacky Demaine could “stand it” no longer, and he rose
from a front seat in the audience and made an
“explanation.” He wished to know “how the
little hound knew him,” saying that he never had a pint
o’ beer with him in his life! Then Jacky wanted to come
behind the stage to talk to the “little hound.” Of
course he was a little fresh. The audience “fairly brought
down the house” with their bursts of laughter, and people
crowded into the booth and around the entrance anxious to know
what was the matter. I have no doubt the little incident would be
talked about for a good while in Addingham.

“NOT ONE LEFT TO TELL THE TALE”

After this, we appeared with our show in the old
Mechanics’ Hall (now the Yorkshire Penny Bank) at Keighley.
A travelling auctioneer who was staying there a week engaged us
to give our performances during the intervals at his sales. He
paid us very well. But Mr Howard was in the habit of taking more
drink than was good for him, and he dispensed with the
“mummers” one by one, until there was scarce one of
our celebrated actors left to tell the tale and carry on the
show.

THE WAR PIG AT HAWORTH—A LAUGHABLE STORY

The marionettes having come to their end, and your humble
servant being now practically out of a situation, he began to
bestir his imagination for some other line which he might enter
into in the show business. It was one morning while I was walking
along Back-lane, at the top end of the town, that I “fell
in luck.” Old John Malloy kept a grocer’s shop
there—the Ship Inn now marks the spot—and I heard
from him that he had a small litter of pigs. I saw them, and
found among them a black pig—a puny, rickety, and most
dejected-looking creature. I asked John what he would take for
the best and the worst, and although he did not wish to part with
the best pig, he was not very particular in that respect with
regard to the worst—“the leetle blackie.” For
this he said he would take a shilling, and after bargaining with
John I got the pig for ten-pence. I took the pig away with me in
an empty herring-box, and consulted my friend, John Spencer. I
said, “John; we’ll take this pig to Haworth, and show
it as the War Pig from South America.” John laughed at the
idea, but heartily agreed with it. In the next place I got
“on tick” a piece of calico several yards long, and
with some lampblack I painted in bold type on the calico the
words, “Come and see the War Pig from South America, 2d.
each.” Then Spencer and I engaged the large garret at the
Fleece Inn, Haworth. It was a large room, holding, I should
think, a couple of hundreds of people, and was entered by a
staircase in the back-yard, separate from the public house
proper. Mrs Stangcliffe was the landlady, and she readily allowed
us to have the room, I having taken it of her once before. Well,
to get to business.

THE EXHIBITION

We displayed the calico signpost at the front of the inn, and
at the appointed hour in the evening we had a crowded audience in
the room. I must give my comrade Spencer more credit than myself
for the “show;” for he would have two strings to his
bow. While he and I were entering the place, he picked up a black
cat belonging to some poor neighbour, and quickly stowed it away
in one of his capacious pockets. The cat will appear later. As
John put pussy away, he said, “If t’War Pig
doesn’t satisfy ’em, I’ll show ’em
something else.” We commenced the performance. I brought
the pig out of the box, and exhibited the animal on a small table
in the middle of the room. The audience was on the tiptoe of
expectation, and crowded towards the table to see the famous war
pig, which, after its long confinement, and also, of course, from
its natural condition, was hardly able to stand. In a few words I
introduced the war pig—“Ladies and
gentlemen,—In opening the performance this evening, I have
to show you the famous war pig from South America,”
&c., &c.

THE COBBLER’S DISCOVERY

There was an old fellow at the back of the room wearing a
leather apron and red cap, with his blue shirt sleeves rolled
up—a typical old cobbler. He pushed up to the table, and,
after “eyeing” the “exhibit” somewhat
critically through his spectacles, he held forth as
follows:—“Nah, dus ta call thet a war pig?” in
the vernacular peculiar to the natives. I said, “Did ta
ivver see a war pig i’ thi life?” “Noa,”
said he blankly “it’s t’ warst pig I
ivver set mi een on.” And then the audience saw where the
“war” pig came in, and they laughed heartily over the
joke. It was a relief to me when they did put the best face on
the affair. Under cover of the diversion I stole from the room,
and prepared to leave the place. I met Mrs Stangcliffe at the
foot of the staircase. She said “she did not know what to
think about us, but there had been a fearful noise, and she took
it that we had pleased the company.” With this I left the
inn, and got away to a place where I had arranged to wait for
Spencer.

TIPPO-SAHIB—THE INDIAN CAT

Yes; you will be wondering what has become of Spencer. Well;
he stayed behind to continue the show. As he told me afterwards,
he appeared before the screen and said, “Ladies and
Gentlemen,—You don’t seem to be quite satisfied with
the war pig from South America. I can assure you that I have here
a cat which I brought from India; they call her Tippo-Sahib. She
can tell fortunes. Tippo has told the fortunes of all the Indian
kings and princes, and I have brought her here expressly to tell
the ladies present their fortunes. Now, Tippo (introducing the
Haworth-bred cat to the audience), walk round the room and tell
the ladies their fortunes.” Puss had no sooner been
liberated than she bounded out at the open door. Spencer said
hastily, “I believe the climate of England is too cold for
Tippo; but I’ll fetch her back.” Upon this he darted
out of the door, and down the stairs after the scared cat; and
this was the way Spencer effected his escape. Of course, the
audience tumbled to it that the whole concern was a swindle, but
they “bore up” well, and even seemed satisfied with
the swindle, for they had many good laughs out of it. Spencer
joined me on the road just out of Haworth, and together we
returned to Keighley.

AT HAWORTH AGAIN—FUNNY STORIES

As I remarked in the earlier part of the above incident, I had
on a former occasion figured in the large room attached to the
Fleece Inn. This occasion turned out a kind of
“slope,” though not so bad a one as that already
described. There happened to be staying in Keighley Wild’s
Theatre, and John Spencer and I thought we could manage a bit of
“business” at Haworth. So we borrowed two costumes.
Mine was a monkey dress—a kind of skin covering for the
whole body—which I had lent to me by “Billy
Shanteney.” Spencer obtained the loan of a clown’s
dress. At this time there was a drummer who lived in
Wellington-street. He was well known to Keighley folk as
“Old Bill Heblett.” Bill used to march the streets in
company with bands of music, and caused some amount of wonder and
amazement by throwing his drum-sticks into the air and catching
them between the beats. On this occasion we induced Heblett to
lend us his famed drum; so that with a monkey’s and a
clown’s costumes, and a drum, we were in a fair way of
business. We had intended that the show should consist of Spencer
lifting heavy weights, and I was to amuse the audience with jokes
and funny stories. We went up to Haworth, engaged the rooms from
Mrs Stangcliffe, and borrowed the landlady’s bed-curtains
to hang across the room to form a screen and so make the place
look something like a show-room. For footlights we fastened
candles on the floor, placing each candle between three
nails.

THE BELLMAN’S SHAKESPEARE!

Then we engaged a fiddler who went by the name of Billy
Frenchman—a well-known character in Haworth at the time.
Bill had been in the army for some years. In his old age he had
been appointed town’s herald or crier of Haworth. It was in
this capacity that we engaged him to “cry” our show
about Haworth, before we turned out on parade. Billy told us to
write down what we wanted him to say, and this was our
programme—“This is to give notice to the public of
Haworth and the surrounding neighbourhood that a company of
dramatic performers will appear tonight at the Fleece Inn Garret.
The performance to commence with Shakespeare’s comedy,
‘Katharine and Petruchio; or, The Taming of the
Shrew;’ to be followed by ‘Ali Pasha; or, The
Mussulman’s Vengeance,’ and tricks by the monkey, and
comic sketches.” These were the words Billy had written on
his paper, but through some misunderstanding these were
the words I heard him cry out: he gave them in broad Haworth
dialect:—“This is ta gie noatis ta t’publick
o’ Howarth et ther’s bahn ta be sum play-acters at
t’Fleece Inn Garritt, and ther bahn ta act ‘Catherine
fra t’Padding Can, er Who’s ta tak
t’screws;’ ta be follered bi ‘Alpaca, er
t’smashing up o’ t’engines.’” But
Billy’s blunder was perhaps for the best; for, seeing that
this was about the time when hand woolcombing was on the decline,
and engines were being brought out, the people had an idea that
the announcement had some startling reference to their trade.
Myself, I could not help but laugh heartily over this choice
specimen of bellman’s oratory.

BILL PLAYS THE STREET MONKEY

About 5.30 in the evening Jack put on his clown’s
costume, and I put on the monkey’s garb, and Jack, taking
the drum and leading me by a chain, paraded up the main street of
Haworth. Opposite the White Lion we “pitched,” and
the customers soon came out of the public-house, and passers-by
stopped to see “whoa we wor.” I distinctly heard one
of the onlookers say that “if it wor a real un, it wor
t’biggest monkey ut he’d ivver seen.” Then a
few of the folks standing together held a hurried confab., and as
a result one of them announced, “I’ll tread on his
tail, an’ if he squeaks it’ll be a reight un.”
Suiting his words to action the joskin advanced and trod on the
end of the monkey’s tail. Of course the monkey squeaked.
Jacko also turned round suddenly, and, with a horrid grin on his
features, sprang on the shoulders of his intruder. The poor
fellow screamed, and his first words on finding himself out of
danger were “Oh! he’s a reight monkey.” Within
the next few minutes another native came up, and inquired of
Spencer “Ah say—can thy monkey chew
bacca?”—producing a tobacco-box, the size of which
was awe-inspiring. “Try it,” said Spencer,
“Give him the box—he’s very careful.” So
the big-hearted joskin handed his big tobacco-box to the monkey.
I was wearing a mask, which allowed for a large mouth, and I
popped the box into the “yawning cavity.” “By
gow,” said the at-one-time owner of the box, “What a
stummack!—he’s swallered t’box an all!”
With such an uncomfortable article as a tobacco-box in his mouth,
the monkey could not do very much in the way of performing, so
the return was made to the Fleece Inn Garret.
People—particularly the disappointed owner of the
tobacco-box—followed us down, and by opening-time we
had

A DENSELY-CROWDED HOUSE

The old fiddler—a host in himself—was the
orchestra. He knew about three tunes, and these he played
o’er and o’er. I forgot to mention that we had not an
appointed door-keeper, or cashier, so I undertook that superior
office myself. “My word,” said some of the people as
they came in, “just lewk at that monkey; it’s
t’moast remarkable monkey et ivver wor knawn i’
Howarth; it’s soa mich sense woll it can tak t’brass
at t’door.” Well, the house became so crowded that
there was scarcely any room left for us to perform. The time for
commencing arrived, and we appeared before the curtain, though we
felt at a great loss to know how we were going to manage to
perform in the space there was left; for it must be known that we
did actually intend to give a performance. We had gone through a
few “feats”—Spencer lifting and performing with
56lb. weights, and I doing a few tricks at tight-rope walking and
dancing. Spencer was behind the curtain waiting his
“turn,” and when I retired he said: “It’s
no good; we cannot give satisfaction here.”

THE VANISHING TRICK

“There isn’t room for you to work, never tell of
me;” adding, “You had better go and get you right
clothes on. Bring the drum and all our belongings you can get
hold on, and slip out at the back door the best way that you
can.” I obeyed. The “orchestra” was discoursing
diverting music. I went down to exchange monkey for man, so to
speak, and, this done, and having collected our properties, I
made my way, happily undetected, out of the house, and cut across
the fields. Weighed down as I was with the copper taken at the
door, and in my anxiety to look after everything and get away as
fast as I could, I let the drum slip from my grasp. It rolled
down a steep field, and for a short time I had a fine chase after
it. “But where was Jack Spencer?” readers will be
wondering. Yes; I had forgot all about Jack for the minute. As he
afterwards told me, he got away all right except for a little
mishap which befell him just after he had left the place.
Opposite the Fleece Inn was a cartwright’s shop (I believe
the shop is there now), and behind the wall skirting the roadway
was placed an old cart. Spencer knew not of either of these
things, and when he lightly mounted the wall and
leaped—before he had looked—it was to find himself in
the cart, or, to be more precise, falling through the bottom of
it. He rather lamed his leg, and had to limp up to
Merrall’s mill, where I was waiting for him. Together, we
made for Keighley, and on arriving there we “put up”
at the Lord Rodney Inn, in Church Green, which was then kept by
Mrs Fox. Safe in the hostelry, we counted up our spoil, and,
perhaps, congratulated ourselves that we had got off so easily.
Jack told me that before leaving the entertainment he told the
fiddler to play up “special,” as he was going to do a
“fine trick.”

THE AUDIENCE DISCOVER THE “SLOPE.”

Next day we learned from a young man whom we came across at
Wild’s theatre how affairs had developed at Haworth the
previous night. He said that for half-an-hour the fiddler went on
playing his favourite tune, “Rosin the bow.”
By-and-bye, the audience manifested signs of active curiosity as
to the position of affairs, and one man said he would go behind
the curtain and see for himself, adding, “There must be
something wrong.” He went to the front, and pulled the
screen on one side to find—nothing! The audience generally
bore up with good heart, but one determined-looking individual
said, “I’ve paid my two-pence, an’ I’m
bahn ta hev a cannel for it, if nowt else.” And with that
he stalked up to the front, and possessed himself of one of the
candles which had been in use as footlights. Others then made a
rush for the remaining candles, and in the disorder the poor
fiddler fared rather badly, for he got his fiddle broken. But
Spencer and I afterwards visited him, and made good the loss he
sustained. I must say that we never intended the affair to be a
swindle, and, borrowing one of my friend Squire Leach’s
forcible expressions, I may say we “started with good
intentions, whatever came out of ’em.” Perhaps I may
be excused for introducing the following verses of my own,
entitled “Haworth Sharpness,” to close this
chapter:—

CHAPTER VII

Perhaps it will not be out of place for me to introduce a few
recollections I have of several gentlemen who were about this
time of my life prominently before the public.

ABOUT OLD JOE FIRTH

I have heard Oastler speak of the tyranny of factory life in
Keighley. I remember hearing him speak at the “Non.
Con.” Chapel in Sun-street, when Joe Firth, an old
Keighleyite, rose from the gallery and began to address the
meeting. Mr Oastler invited Firth to the rostrum. He went and
delivered a vivid description of factory life. He was an
illiterate man, and spoke in his native dialect. His speech was
so telling that it was well reported, a column appearing in the
Leeds Weekly Times. Firth was fond of speaking of the way
his speech was reported and dressed up so that he really could
not recognise his own words. Firth was afterwards called to
London to give evidence, and he saved enough money out of his
allowance to enable him to abandon hand wool-combing, and set up
as a hawker of tea and coffee. He never looked behind him after
that, and, being a great “spouter,” he got onto the
Keighley Local Board. He was one of the opponents of the Baths
and Washhouses Scheme, and, in fact, he liked opposition in many
things. He was a staunch teetotaller. He died leaving some
property.

TH’ CROOKED LEGGED ’UNS O’ KEIGHLEY

It was about this time that the people of Keighley got the
by-name of “th’ crooked legged ’uns.” It
was not a mere local name, but became a general stigmatic
description of Keighley folks throughout the country. The great
agitator, the late Richard Oastler, was agitating for the Ten
Hours Bill at this time. Many of the young people of Keighley
were then “knock o’ kneed” and otherwise
deformed. This fact was represented to Mr Oastler by the local
poet, Abraham Wildman. The latter was interested in the working
folk, and had published some poems reflecting on their hard life.
Oastler took up the case of the children, twelve of whom with
crooked legs he had exhibited in the House of Commons.
Wildman’s poem, descriptive of these poor young folk, was
submitted to the Duke of Wellington. His grace commended the
poet, saying England would be in a deplorable condition if this
were to be a fair sample of the soldiers that were to be sent
from her factories. The term “crooked legged
’uns” stuck to these specimens through life; and, in
fact, some of them still survive.

“WHITE SLAVERY”

Asked as to his recollections of early factory life, Bill said
he believed that parents took the children to work in the mills
from the very early morning till late at night; and in some cases
they even allowed them to work on Sunday. One manufacturer
allowed the children to work all night, but one father, who was
accustomed to travelling away from home, returned to Addingham,
and found three of his children undergoing this horrible white
slavery. He went to the factory, demanded his children, and
assaulted the caretaker. The matter was brought to a trial at
Bingley, Oastler backing the father. The poor man was fined for
assault, but Captain Ferrand, who had been disgusted with factory
oppression, assisted in taking the case further. The upshot was
that the manufacturer was fined. Captain Ferrand’s interest
in the relief of the poor was deep and abiding, and he did a
great and mighty work in connection with the factory laws. It was
said at the time by the Radicals that his work was dictated by
political expediency rather than by pure humane feelings.
However, Bill is of opinion that the Radicals were mistaken. The
Captain was a stern disciplinarian, but, under a rough exterior,
Bill was sure there beat a warm heart for the weal of the poor,
and especially of pity for those confined so long in
factories.

OASTLER ON FACTORY LIFE

In volume II of Cobbett’s Magazine, there is an
article on “Doctrinaire Government and the factory
system,” and a quotation is made from a speech by Oastler,
asserting that “the factory system has caused a great deal
of the distress and immorality of the time, and a great deal of
the weakness of men’s constitutions.” Oastler said he
would not present fiction to them, but tell them what he himself
had seen. “Take,” he said, “a little child. She
shall rise from her bed at four in the morning of a cold
winter’s day—before that time she awakes perhaps
half-a-dozen times, and says, ‘Father, is it
time—father, is it time?’ When she gets up she feels
about her for her little bits of rags, her clothes, and puts them
on her weary limbs and trudges on to the mill, through rain or
snow, one or two miles, and there she works from thirteen to
eighteen hours, with only thirty minutes’ interval.
Homewards again at night she would go when she was able, but many
a time she hid herself in the wool in the mill, not being able to
reach home; at last she sunk under these cruelties into the
grave.” Mr Oastler said he could bring hundreds of
instances of this kind, with this difference, that they worked 15
instead of 18 hours.

This was delivered a few years before Bill was born, but it
held good in some cases, he was sure, in his early boyhood. There
were then some cotton mills in Keighley district, and the young
were allowed to submit to toil which was far too exhausting to
allow of nature battling for the support of the human frame.
Hence, Bill’s own description of the poor little factory
girl is an apt corroboration:—

They are up in the morning reight early,
They are sometimes afore leet;
Ah hear ther clogs they are clamping,
As t’little things go dahn the street.

They are off in the morning reight early,
With ther basket o’ jock on ther arm;
The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging,
As they enter the mill in a swarm.

They are skapering backward and forward,
Ther ends to keep up if they can;
They are doing ther utmost endeavours,
For fear o’ the frown o’ man.

. . . . .

And naw from her ten hours’ labour,
Back to her cottage she shogs:
Ah hear by the tramping and singing,
’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.

THE LATE REV. W. BUSFIELD

I may add that the late Rev W. Busfield, rector of Keighley,
was a staunch supporter of the Ten Hours Bill, when it had not
many friends among the political Liberals, and when Cobden and
Bright opposed it stoutly on Political Economy pleas. The rector
supported Lord Ashley, Mr Ferrand, and Mr Oastler, and he lived
to see the result of the advocacy of his friends.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE MR BUSFEILD FERRAND

The late Mr Busfeild Ferrand was a typical English squire. In
life he was the owner of the St. Ives’ estate at Bingley.
He sprang from an aristocratic family, who had ever been loyal to
monarchy and country. Trained as a lawyer, he, however, like many
other English gentlemen, did not follow his profession for gain
or popularity. This training served him well in public life, and
augmented the many sterling qualities of his character and his
utility in the unpaid public service. He was a soldier, a civil
administrator, an ardent and exceedingly able
politician—Tory, of course, to the back-bone. He was a
leading advocate for the “Ten Hours Bill.” The
champions of that great movement were Fielding, Ferrand, and
Oastler. Mr Ferrand was instrumental in passing the Truck Act,
which did so much service to working men, in removing the
deceptions and impositions of indirect payment of wages. He was a
great advocate of allotments for working men, and set the first
example to the wealthy and willing to provide the people with
ground for healthy open-air recreation. As an agriculturist he
was an enthusiast, and all who had tenancy of land under him
found all well so long as they observed strictly the conditions
of their tenancy, but woe to them and to all concerned if they
infringed in the slightest degree the iron rule of discipline set
down by Mr Ferrand. In every capacity of life, he was a
disciplinarian who could not brook any breach of rule. Poaching,
and every offence that interfered with the rights of the
preserves on his estate, called forth prosecution for the
offence. My first recollection of Mr Ferrand dates from the
general election when this part of the country was contested by
Messrs Morpeth and Milton. I was about eight years old at the
time. The two politicians visited every part of the district, and
on one occasion the Tory party came through Hoylus End. I, and my
“mates” were wearing party favours; but they were all
“yellow,” while I was “blue.” Mr Ferrand
was with the electioneers, and he must have noticed that I was
the most conspicuous Tory youngster; for he drew from his pocket
a big handful of coppers and threw them down to me. From that
day, I can say, I have been a Tory. During the campaign the local
rhymesters and writers were very busy concocting electioneering
“squibs;” and, young as I was, I tried my
’prentice hand along with the rest. It was with
astonishment and amazement that my parents and my companions
received the following doggerel:—

Morpeth and Milton went a baking pies,
Milton gave to Morpeth two black eyes.

THE KEIGHLEY RIOT

About the year 1852—at the time of the Keighley
Fair—there was some poaching in Bingley Wood. A gamekeeper
had come across the poachers, who seized and tied him to a tree;
suspicion fell upon some factory workers, and they were taken
before the court at Keighley. Mr Ferrand was in the court, but
took no part in the judicial consideration of the case, which
lasted nearly the whole of the afternoon. A barrister, who
resided at Settle, was for the defence. It proved a case of wrong
identity, and the prosecution was dismissed. The real poachers
had escaped, some from the country. A rowdy element excited the
people against Mr Ferrand, and they even went so far as to create
a riot, aiming their missiles in the street at Mr Ferrand. It was
a case of one brave man and a mob. At last, after pursuing his
way fearlessly of their missiles, he was blocked, and had to read
the Riot Act at premises now used by Messrs Laycock & Sons,
curriers. The police-constables were of no avail against the mob,
and soldiers were procured from Bradford. The roughs found the
soldiers unwelcome visitors on the scene, and the streets were
soon cleared. No prisoners were made. Capt. Ferrand took part in
leading the soldiers, and those who were so valiant before were
now no longer to be seen defiant; they had fled. Mr John Garnett,
school-master, wrote some lines on the affair, called “The
Baron’s Revenge.”

A CHANGE OF LIFE

Begging pardon for this digression, and returning to
recollections of my own life, I may say that a longing had now
come over me for a quiet term of life, and I accordingly settled
down at home. Work was once more found for me at Messrs
Lund’s mill; indeed, I have often since thought that the
late Mr William Lund must have stipulated in his will that work
was at all times to be found for me. Off and on, I must have
worked at North Beck Mills some score times, and each time there
was a sort of welcome reception for me. Perhaps my father’s
life-long connection with the firm had something to do with it.
Be that as it may, I settled down, determined to make an entire
alteration in my course of life. A visit paid to William Sugden,
and I was possessed, I thought, of one of the grandest suits of
clothes there ever was.

JOINING THE SUNDAY SCHOOL

Then my parents had a talk with me as to joining the Sunday
school, and, after some hesitation, I connected myself with the
Wesleyan Sunday school at Exley Head. Mr Edward Pickles,
manufacturer, Holme Mill (now living, I believe, at Bradford),
was the superintendent of the school, and other of the officers
were Mr John Dinsdale, who had the distinction of being a local
preacher, and the late Mr Thomas Bottomley, of Braithwaite. For
some six months I attended the school with the regularity of the
Prince Smith Clock, and was not absent a single Sunday. Fellow
scholars of mine were, William Scott, Hannah Holmes (afterwards
married to a missionary, named Kaberry, with whom she went to
Africa), Midgley Hardacre, Thomas Binns, John Pearson, and James
Smith, locally known as “Jim o’ Aaron’s,”
who met his death by falling down a lime kiln. Sunday school work
interested me greatly, and it was with much “happiness at
heart” that I looked forward to Sunday. I was not long a
scholar ere I was made a teacher. Possessed as I was of what I
may call a “theatrical” voice, acquired during my
career on the stage, the people liked to hear me read, and I was
kept fully occupied in reading chapters from the Bible. Yes; the
time I spent at the Sunday school was a very happy one.

LED ASTRAY BY POLITICS

But, unfortunately, a few of my companions got me to bother my
head with local politics. There was a Local Board election
approaching at Keighley, and some new-made acquaintances led me,
as it were, to contract the prevailing political fever; and, as
events turned, it was not meet that I should do so. My sinning
friends were Bill Spink, better known as “Old Bung;”
“Porky Bill,” Jonas Moore, and others. I struggled
hard for the particular party which I favoured, writing
“squibs” and all kinds of doggerel, until I became
literally saturated with politics. In the meantime I had
continued my attendance at the Sunday School, though my duties
were entered into with less zest and enjoyment than formerly. I
well remember Mr Pickles, the superintendent, saying he had no
doubt I should be a great man some time. But the insinuating
influences of certain companions acquired during my political
career soon told upon me; the old saw says “Show me your
comrades and I will tell you who you are.” I got associated
with people older than myself, many of them wool-combers from
Bradford and other places—men who had seen the world in all
its dodgy and dark ways, and who knew how to take advantage of
people who hadn’t. I had plenty of money, and I found
plenty of friends to help me to spend it. I began a retrograde
movement, finally severing my connection with the Sunday school,
a step which gave my parents great uneasiness. I attribute my
falling off entirely to the bad companionship into which I was
led. They were too “old” for me, and I was rather too
“soft” for them. Many were the scrapes into which
they brought me, and it was in consequence of one of these that I
and a female companion whose acquaintance I had made started one
morning on the tramp for Middlesborough.

CHAPTER VIII

A WOOING EXPEDITION AND ITS SEQUEL

In the last chapter I told how I started on “the
tramp” with a female companion to Middlesborough. It was
early in the morning when we turned our backs upon Keighley for
the North. We trudged by road to Otley, Ripley, and Ripon, Thirsk
and on to Stockton-on-Tees. Here my petticoat companion was so
tired and weary that I left her, having secured her lodgings with
an old lady, who agreed to take care of her until my return; my
intention being to get work and a home in Middlesborough, and
then to fetch my partner thither.

FAMILY TROUBLES AT MIDDLESBOROUGH

I pushed on to Middlesborough, but was
“flabbergasted” to find the girl’s uncle and
several cousins—male, and all upgrown (!)—awaiting my
arrival! It turned out that they had been apprised of my probable
arrival by a letter from the girl’s parents at Keighley. It
was “blood and thunder” for a few minutes when they
saw me, and the uncle was fairly exasperated to find that his
niece was not with me. “What have you done with her?”
he asked, excitedly. “Have you drowned her?” I
besought him to “be quiet,” and then I would tell him
all about it. So he was quiet, and I told him where I had left
the girl. There were three sons with the uncle, and the four
received my story with distrust—they would see their cousin
that night they declared. Thus, my position was getting pretty
hot, and there was nothing for it but to return to Stockton. This
conclusion vexed me sore, for with my tired and weary frame I was
well-nigh ready to drop; but I saw there was no other way out of
the situation. I had already met three friends I knew in
Middlesborough, the three brothers O’Gorman—I had
made their acquaintance some time previously at
Keighley—and they agreed to walk back with me to
Stockton-on-Tees. The girl’s uncle and her three cousins
made the party into eight—a veritable cavalcade in quest of
a poor, defenceless woman. We got to Stockton all right, and the
uncle and his sons took the girl in charge, while I was left with
my three friends, the O’Gormans, to do as I liked. What was
more, I was robbed of all opportunities of communing with the
“erstwhile companion of my choice”—

Who afterwards became, I trow,
A partner in my weal and woe.

My newly-found friends and I went back to Middlesborough.
Going on the quay one morning, I fell in with two men, whom I
asked if there was any chance of a job. After scanning me
o’er and o’er they asked what I was able to
do—what trade I was at last. Out of my thousand and odd
“qualifications” I decided that I “had done a
bit o’ sailoring.” “Can you do anything in the
dockyard?” asked one of them. “Yes,” I thought
I could. Then was I engaged.

AS A DOCK-YARD LABOURER

The salary was fixed by my employers at £5 per month,
though I was told that I should have to work a month “in
hand;” which was rather hard for me, seeing that I was
without money. Soon after I again fell in with the
O’Gormans, and was introduced to the family. The head of
the household was Peter O’Gorman, who had been in America
and understood dock-yard business a good bit. Well, I got on
fairly well as docker—a free labourer, I think I
was,—although the work was not by any means regular,
depending as it did on the arrival of timber-laden vessels from
Norway and Sweden. Having a good deal of time hanging on my hands
I visited various parts of the town, and it was one morning,
while on an errand of this sort, that one of the O’Gormans
came up to me and showed me an advertisement inviting
applications for the execution of certain excavating work in
connection with the Middlesborough new cemetery.

ACTING THE NAVVY CONTRACTOR

The advertisement gave great prominence to the instruction,
“No Irish need apply.” Now, my friend O’Gorman
was an Irishman, and he was desirous of applying for the job. So
he asked me if I would be good enough to don myself in his
labourer’s clothes and try to secure the contract. I said I
should be glad to do so. After receiving due instruction as to
how to proceed in the application, I went and presented myself to
the contractor. That individual, I found out, was a Scotchman of
the name of Macpherson. He put different questions to me as to
whether I was capable of doing the work, &c. One of his
inquiries had reference to my abilities for drawing. Could I
draw? “Yes,” I thought I could, and on a sheet of
paper which Mr Macpherson supplied, I tried my hand at drawing.
My production was satisfactory. “Can you find men?”
he asked. “Yes,” said I. “What about the
tools?” “Oh!” I had to reply, “I have no
tools.” This notwithstanding, he said, I might start on the
job next morning, and bring all my men. I completed my
arrangements with the Messrs O’Gorman, and next morning my
(?) workmen were “at it,” spades, picks, &c,
being provided by Mr Macpherson. What may seem more surprising, I
continued at my own work in the dockyard, besides acting (though
really but nominally) as sub-contractor in the excavating work at
the cemetery. In about a week, however, Mr Macpherson
“smelt a rat,” and found out that the job was a hoax
so far as I was concerned; nevertheless the work went on all
right. The land was very soft and easily worked, being mostly
formed of sand and pebbles; and the contract was completed within
five weeks. The payment ran to 10s per day per man, all of us
having agreed to go in share and share alike. So that with this
and my work at the dock-yard I did very well, and “got on
to my feet” again. Indeed, to make a long story short I had
got to be a regular “masher.”

FALLING AMONG KEIGHLEY FRIENDS

I made up my mind to come back to Keighley, and let my folks
see how I was getting on.

Home of my boyish days, how can I call,
Scenes to my memory that did befall?
How can my trembling pen find power to tell
The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?
Can I forget the days joyously spent
That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?
Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,
Home of my boyish days, without one tear?

Can I look back on days that have gone by,
Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?
Oh, no; though never these eyes may dwell
On thee, old cottage home I love so well;
Home of my childhood, wherever I be,
Thou art the nearest and dearest to me.

Accordingly I gave up my situation at the dockyard, and having
bid adieu to Middlesborough, I took train for Bradford. In
Bradford, I have to say to my sorrow, I fell in with some of my
Keighley friends, and within a very short time I had been induced
to part with all my money, and, in fact, some of my clothes. When
I recovered my senses—for I must have lost them to act as I
did—I found myself in a sad and sorry plight.

ENLISTING IN THE ARMY

The time chanced to be about the outbreak of the Crimean War,
and they were “drumming up” for the army. There were
recruiting sergeants to be met with at every turn. It is said
that even a worm will turn when trodden on, and it did not
require much of the sergeant’s persuasive oratory to induce
me to take the Queen’s shilling and enlist in the West York
Rifles.

I left yon fields so fair to view,
I left yon mountain pass and peaks;
I left two e’en so bonny blue,
A dimpled chin and rosy cheeks.
For a helmet gay and suit o’ red
I did exchange my corduroy;
I mind the words the sergeant said
When I, in sooth, was but a boy.

CHAPTER IX

MY MILITARY CAREER

Now I commence a brand new era of my life. I am one of the
Queen’s great body-guard—I am
’listed—sworn, and all. Why this? Was it because I
wanted to “follow to the field some warlike lord?”
No; it was simply a thirst to see fresh fields and pastures
new—fresh places and fresh faces. It was not long before I
found that my desire was to be gratified, for I learned that the
regiment to which I belonged—or soon was to
belong—was already on the road from Aldershot to Edinburgh.
I saw that my long-cherished desire to visit the Land o’
Cakes and Barley was to be fulfilled. I believe that I shall have
to confess that the thought of getting to see bonnie Scotland was
the all-powerful reason for my joining the army. When I
’listed I told the sergeant that he had better take me to
the headquarters in Bradford at once, as I was so well known in
the town, and did not want to figure as a recruit in the
“publics,” where it was the custom to keep the
recruits until a batch had been got together. Still the sergeant
kept me there, until I threatened that if he did not send me off
at once I would desert and leave the town. I was the only recruit
he got in Bradford. He took me to Pontefract, where there were
more recruits in waiting.

EMBARKING FOR SCOTLAND

I stayed in Pontefract a couple of days, and then I was moved
with the other recruits to the port of Hull, where we embarked
one splendid autumn afternoon in a screw steamer for Leith, in
Scotland. I shall never forget the incidents which happened
during this short voyage. There were many passengers on board,
not the least important being a couple of London sharpers. There
was an escort of soldiers who were taking a deserter back to his
regiment, and there was a young man-o’-war’s man
belonging to the good ship “Cornwallis.” He was going
to Scotland to see his mother in Edinburgh. Then there was an
elderly gentleman, who, judging by his bronzed countenance, had
been in a foreign clime for a long time. He was returning to his
native heath. Another passenger was a dashing young gentleman,
whose father, he told us, was an hotel-keeper in Rotherham, near
Sheffield. This one had his fingers gaudily ornamented with rings
and diamonds. Of course there isn’t much to be said of us
recruits, except, perhaps, that we were regarded as so many
“raw lads.” Nevertheless we passed our time during
the day very agreeably in various ways—games,
&c.—until darkness settled over the ship, and then we
retired into the cabin.

THIEVES ON BOARD

At night, I recollect, the wind was very boisterous, and the
sea very rough. All we recruits—or the majority of
us—were quite ready for Morpheus to take us in his arms
when retiring-time came. The men’s sleeping apartment was
one common room. Stillness and silence—save and except,
perhaps, the snoring—reigned with us until about one after
midnight, when (I remember I was thinking of “Home, Sweet
Home” at the time) I saw two men gliding stealthily about
the cabin. One of the men carried a lighted taper, which he
shielded with his hand, and his companion, I saw, was in the act
of robbing the sleeping passengers; taking anything that came in
their way—provided, of course, that it was worth taking. I
overheard one of the two say, “Let’s get to the other
side, them recruits’ll have nothing.” Then did they
steal across to the other side of the cabin. I saw them take
money from the old gentleman first. He was hard asleep. Then they
took rings from the fingers of the young masher, and next turned
their attention to the young sailor lad further on. His money was
in a little bag tied round his neck, beneath his shirt breast.
The robbers cut the bag away, and took it with them; it contained
the savings of the lad and his passport. All this I saw done, and
did not dare to move or speak for fear of being
“done” by the rascals. Having stripped the cabin of
all that appeared to be in their line, they left and went up the
stairs onto the deck, feeling, I suppose, cocksure that they had
had their rascality to themselves. The morn dawned, and the first
to give the alarm that they had been robbed were those two London
“prigs,” who swore vengeance upon the whole of us.
One of them declared that he had been a rogue all his
life—a sentiment to which I said “aye,”
“aye” in my own mind,—but added that if he
could find the man who had taken 28s from his pockets he would
forgive him. The other thief said he had lost his watch, but he,
too, would forgive the man who would acknowledge and return it.
Then there was a general hulabaloo among the passengers, and
everybody began to be alarmed. Each felt in his pockets and
examined his belongings, and with very few exceptions all who had
had anything to lose had lost it. The captain came across
the bow, and was told that there were thieves on board and he
ought to have the passengers searched. The captain said he could
hardly do that on the high seas: it was against all sea-faring
law; but he suggested when they arrived at the port of Leith the
authorities would do their best to find out the guilty ones. He
also pointed out that it behoved anyone on board, if he had the
slightest suspicion, to give information to him.

HOW THE THIEVES WERE TRAPPED

I knew full well I was the one able to do this, but I did not
step forward, being somewhat at a loss which way to go about it.
However, as we were coasting Fifeshire, I slipped down into the
steward’s room, when all the passengers were basking in the
sun on the deck, and told the steward all I knew about the
affair. I got him to promise to tell the captain in such a way
that it should not be known until we had disembarked that I had
given the information. He transferred the information to the
captain, and presently the steward came and beckoned me to follow
him down to his cabin, remarking that nobody would see me. I saw
the captain, and told him what I knew of the matter. The robbery
continued to be the sole topic of talk the rest of the journey.
Clearing the coast of Fife, we soon came in sight of Edinburgh,
and, sailing up the Forth, we finally landed at Leith. It was
Sunday afternoon, and there were large numbers of people about to
watch us land. The majority of the people ran for the first pier,
but the captain ordered the vessel to land at the second pier,
which disappointed the people. Two Scottish policemen were
stationed at the bottom of the gangway. The escort with their
prisoner were allowed to pass; also the recruits, with the
exception of myself. Next the passengers filed off, and, in turn,
came the two cockney “prigs.” The captain ordered
them to be searched by the policeman; and searched they were,
though not without some show of resistance. Everything that was
missing was found upon them, with the exception of the young
sailor’s passport.

THE TRIAL AND IMPRISONMENT

The twain were handcuffed and taken to Carlton Gaol, at the
top end of Edinburgh, and the next morning they were tried before
the Lord Provost, and each sentenced to twelve months’
imprisonment with hard labour. I was called to give evidence in
the court, and chagrined the two London sharpers must have felt
to find out how they had been caught red-handed. This was my
first appearance in a police court.

AT EDINBURGH—BILL TELLS THE COLONEL SOMETHING

On the night of our arrival, the deserter was taken to
Edinburgh, and put into the guard-room. The recruits and myself
were drawn up in line before the Colonel, and we were asked
particularly who we were and whence we came. My turn arrived.
“Well, and who are you?” says the Colonel. “You
seem to have had a better time than these Sheffielders.” I
told him that I was from Keighley, in the West Riding of
Yorkshire. “Is that somewhere near Bingley?” asked
the Colonel. “Yes,” replied I, “about four
miles away.” “Do you know a gentleman in the
neighbourhood called William Busfeild Ferrand?” “Yes,
sir,” replied I. “He lives at St. Ives; I know him
very well.” “Have you (queried the Colonel with a
merry twinkling in his eye) ever had any of his hares and
rabbits?” “No,” replied I, “I’m not
a poacher.” “Well,” remarked the Colonel,
“I think you will do well; perhaps it’s the best
thing you ever did. But of these Sheffielders I have no high
opinion; they’re a bad sample of soldiers indeed, and if I
had my way I would petition Government to have no Sheffielders at
all in the Army.” Then we retired from the Colonel’s
presence, the sergeant in charge being instructed to take us on
the following morning before the regimental doctor for
examination. Set at liberty for the time being, we recruits made
for the canteen. There we found all classes of
soldiers—Highlanders, Lancers, Artillerymen—all
supping their ale and making merry.

A RED-LETTER DAY IN MY LIFE

Next morning the recruits were brought before the doctor, who
duly examined and passed us—all but two men. The next move
was to the quarter-master’s stores; and now, for the first
time in my life, I donned the Queen’s uniform. This, I can
truly say, was a red-letter day in my career: I felt a proud man
for the moment, and I remember the thought suggesting itself,
“Now, where will this land you, William Wright?” I
had a longing to see the city and its surroundings—Holyrood
Palace, Roslin Castle, John Knox’s house, &c.; so I
asked the quarter-master for the necessary leave. But he said
that before I could leave the barracks I must get quit of my
civilian’s clothing—you see they were frightened I
should desert. I was told that there was a Jew in the bottom
corridor of the castle who bought second-hand clothing.

“JEWED” BY A JEW

I accordingly paid a visit to my friend Isaac, and asked him,
“What will give me for this suit o’ clothes? They
cost me £3 10s in Bradford only three weeks ago, and,
besides, these boots are nearly new.” “Well, my
frent,” said the old Jew “tem poots vill be
sixpence, an’ tees cloas vill pe von shillin’;
an’ (speaking with warmth) I vill not gif you von penny
more for tem—not von penny.” “I’ll be
blessed if I’ll take that” said I, also speaking with
some fervour; “You vile dog of a Jew! No wonder that your
race is hated in every clime, for you would rob a saint of his
shoe strings!” But the Jew had been tempered to these oft
repeated “blessings,” as was proved by the coolness
with which he said: “Howefer, dat is vhat I vill gif you,
an’ not anoder farding.” Seeing that parleying was
useless with this worldly extortionizer, and seeing, also, what a
fix I was in, I eventually parted with my clothes and shoes.

BEFORE THE DRILL-SERGEANT

After that I was at liberty to leave the barracks; which I
did, and made my way down into the city—into Canongate. On
my return to barracks it was time for recruits’ drill. The
drill-sergeant had a voice like unto a growling buffalo. He said:
“Now, then, ye recruits, Ye’re not at home
now—a lot of sucking pigs with your mothers. Ye’ve
got good pay and rations, and by the bokey ye’ll have to
drill.” This was the order of the day for two months, and
at the end of that time I had made pretty fast progress with my
drill, and I was shortly placed in the ranks as a full-blown
soldier.

A PROMOTION

One morning, soon after this, I was called to the
orderly-room. I was told that it had pleased my superiors to
promote me to the rank of a lance-corporal. I made some objection
to this, saying I did not yet know private’s duty, as I had
only been a private for two months. But the colonel told me that
I could well learn the duties of both private and lance-corporal
at the same time. Therefore, I accepted the promotion, though I
was quite content to stay as I was, and I got a stripe to put on
my tunic and “shell” jacket; also on my great coat.
My first duty as a lance “Jack” was as escort of a
coal fatigue in the castle. I had under me a squad of old
soldiers, whose duty it was to carry boxes of coals from the
basement to the upper story in the building. Although I was very
forbearing with the men, they were ever and anon grumbling and
growling, and in the course of one of their little outpourings I
heard a veteran exclaim that he never knew a fool in his life but
what was lucky!

A WARNING AND ITS EFFECT

After superintending the coal fatigue, I was put in charge of
a dozen privates, young and old, in one of the bottom rooms of
the castle. Some of the young bloods were very generous in their
fault-finding and acts of disobedience. One of the old fellows
actually point-blankly refused to wash and scrub the benches in
the room—which I had ordered him to do. By this time their
pleading and other things had somewhat “softened my heart
towards them,” and the thought came into my head,
“don’t be so hard on the poor old chaps; you’re
abler to do the work than some of them.” Thus my feelings
prompted me to take my turn with them, and, divesting myself of
my jacket, and rolling up my shirt sleeves, I set myself to
scrubbing the benches. But, by Jupiter! no sooner had I commenced
my self-imposed task than in popped Captain Clifford Lloyd, who
was on his rounds. “What are you doing there,
corporal?” he bellowed forth when he saw me. “Oh, I
am just scrubbing the forms, sir, for a bit of exercise”
said I. “D... you and your exercise,” retorted the
captain sternly. “Now, don’t let me catch you at it
again. Here’s an old lazy hound behind you who knows very
well that it is his duty, and I shall take that stripe off your
arm if I catch you at this job again.” Of course, as a
non-commissioned officer, I took the warning to heart, and kept
to my own duties for the future—the warning having taken
effect with the old soldiers as well as myself.

HOAXED BY THE SERGEANTS

Of course I came in for hoaxes from the sergeants. I mind one
incident which happened one evening. During the day I had been in
charge of the cook-house. Sergeant Murphy, an old soldier, came
to me and said I was wanted by the sergeant-major immediately.
“What’s the matter? There is nothing wrong with me,
is there?” I asked, noticing that the messenger looked
rather concerned. “Don’t you know?” I asked
again, and then the sergeant said, “If you
don’t know, you soon will do. The fact is, you have spoiled
the coppers in the cook-house, you have burned the bottoms out of
them.” “They were all right when I left” I
retorted, beginning to feel rather “queer.” If I had
never been one before I felt a coward then; but, come what might,
I thought, they can only reduce me in rank. So with “firm
step” I marched to the sergeant-major’s quarters. To
my surprise—and in a manner which at once put me at my
ease—the sergeant-major bade me a cheerful “Good
evening.” He told me that he had a job for me—he
wanted me to accompany fifteen recruits to the theatre, and
strictly enjoined me to see them back to barracks after the
theatre closed. I took the men to the play-house, and brought
them all back safe and sound, and the sergeant-major expressed
himself very pleased with my abilities as a chaperon.

BANQUET AT EDINBURGH CASTLE

Shortly after there was to be a grand festival in the Castle
given by Captain Darnall, who was severing his connection with
the Castle. I was relieved of all soldier’s duties for nine
days, and told off with others to decorate certain rooms on the
premises in preparation for the festival. The event came off in
due course; it was a grand affair, and was made the most of on
all hands. Captain Darnall presented the oldest soldier with a
silver cup.

CHANGE OF VENUE

It was not long ere I was made a full Corporal, and commenced
to receive double pay. Now I felt a hero, and no mistake. All
this time I had been a keen observer of both men and manners, and
I had really seen all there was to be seen in Edinburgh and
neighbourhood. It was, therefore, with pleasurable feelings that
I heard that No. 7 Company, to which I belonged, was to be sent
to the military garrison at Greenlaw—a bonny little village
some ten miles from Edinburgh. I think the scenery in this
district is about the most picturesque and romantic in all
Scotland. Roslin Castle is only a short distance away. The
neighbourhood is divided into little villages, and to one of
these—Milton Bridge—I paid frequent visits during my
sojourn at Greenlaw. At Milton Bridge there was a tavern, known
by the sign of “The Fishers’ Tryst,” kept by a
cheery old gentleman and his daughter. I got on very friendly
terms with the landlord and his lassie, and entrusted to them the
secret as to who I really was;—for I had joined the
regiment under a nom de plume. In my communications with
my friends at Keighley I gave them to understand that I was
working as an ordinary individual for my living. I dated all my
letters from “The Fishers’ Tryst,” in the name
of “William Ferdinand Wright,” and for three years I
avoided identification.

CHAPTER X

A CHAT WITH “DUNCAN DHEW”

It was one beautiful summer afternoon, while strolling along
the pleasant country lanes, which looked charming with their
avenues of stately oak trees, whose branches were tenanted by
scores of squirrels, that I came upon an elderly gentleman who
was sitting smoking. I bade him “Good-day,” and asked
him for a match; which he gave me and invited me to sit down
beside him and have a smoke and a chat. In the course of our
conversation I discovered that my friend was no common man. When,
in reply to his enquiry, I told him that the headquarters of my
regiment were at Edinburgh, he said, “and what a disgrace
some of the men have brought upon your regiment.” Every one
of the guards at Holyrood Palace had been found
‘beastly’ drunk, excepting one man, who was keeping
sentry at the magazine on the top of Arthur’s Seat. The
circumstance was especially discreditable as His Royal Highness
the Prince of Wales was staying at Holyrood. “I understand
(continued the speaker) that they broke into the wine cellar, and
stole some fifty bottles of port and champagne. Most of that they
drunk, until when found they were ‘blind
palatic’.” “Yes, sir” said I, “I
believe it is all true. All the men are put back for
court-martial except the man at the magazine, who held his post
all night without being relieved.” “Serves the
rascals right,” retorted the old gentleman. “In my
time of soldiering every man jack of them would have been
shot—the sergeant as well.” “Then, sir,”
said I, “you have been in the Army?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I have served a little
time, and took part in the Peninsular War.” But beyond this
my unknown friend would tell me nothing about his military
career.

A VISIT TO THE “BIG HALL”

We next fell to talking about the big hall which lay in front
of us. My friend asked me if I should like to look over it, and
on my saying that I should, he directed me on the way to the
mansion, telling me to go a little further up the lane, then turn
in at the wicket gate and follow the footpath across the lawn.
“Then,” said he, “you’ll come to the
kitchen door. Knock, and ask for a horn of beer.”
“But whose word shall I give?” I asked, “Tell
them an old gentleman called Duncan Dhew, in black knee breeches
and leggings has sent you, and it will be all right. And then
(added he) if you wish it you can go further into the park by
crossing another path over the lawn.” I thanked the kind
old gentleman, and took my departure.

THE SCOTCH LASSIE’S REGRET

It was not long before I was at the old hall. I rapped at the
kitchen-door according to orders, and a woman of about forty
summers made her appearance. When I mentioned the name given me
by the old gentleman she laughed heartily, and said that if I
would come in I should have a horn or two of beer—if I
liked. She was a pleasant-spoken Scotchwoman, and before I took
my leave she said chaffingley that it was a pity she wasn’t
twenty years younger, for then she might have been “my
lassie.”

A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE

Quitting the house I took into the park, and to say that I was
delighted with the scene is not in anywise doing justice to the
feelings I experienced at the time. I can truly say that I have
never seen anything so lovely since—the splendid walks,
with their long avenues of wide-spreading and noble-looking
trees; the bright gardens and sparkling fountains; the babbling
burns, crossed here and there by pontoon bridges; and last, but
by no means least, the panoramic bits of the distant landscape
visible through the openings in the trees—all these went to
make up a veritable Arcadia. Then, as I walked further into the
park I saw numbers of wild deer, which looked up at me as I
passed by as much as to say, “What business have you to
intrude on our sacred rights?” Well, I walked and walked,
until I thought I was not coming to the end of the park that day.
But soon the path dropped, and disclosed a little valley, in
which were located about a half-dozen thatched dwellings. Here, I
found, lived the gamekeeper and a few farm labourers. At the
house I called at the wee laddies and lassies wondered whatever I
was; they had never before seen a “walking target.”
The gamekeeper told me that if I was stationed at Greenlaw
Barracks I had walked in a very curious direction, for I was
thirteen miles, by the ordinary road, out of my course. I was
exceedingly ill at ease to hear this pronouncement, and told him
that it would be “hot” for me if I was not in before
the “tattoo,” or the “last post.” The
keeper, I found, was a true Scotchman, and of a very obliging
nature. He proffered to take me through the wood to a place
called Milton Bridge. We started, and were soon at the village
mentioned, where, at the “Fishers’ Tryst,” we
had a “drappie o’ whuskey” over the matter.
Then we parted, and I got into barracks in time.

BACK TO AULD REEKIE

The very next morning after this interesting day the order
came that our company was to return to Edinburgh, and give place
for another company. My stay at Greenlaw had extended over six
months. Now for “Auld Reekie!” Soon after we arrived
there was a great review at the Castle, the Queen and Prince
Albert Victor inspecting the troops.

INTERVIEW WITH THE EMPRESS EUGENIE

I remember being the sergeant in charge of the guard at
Holyrood Palace at the time when the Empress Eugenie was on a
visit to Scotland. The French Fleet accompanied her to Scotland,
and lay in the Firth of Forth. The crews of the ships comprised
some fine sailors, who, I think, were the smartest lot I ever
saw. The Empress and her Court stayed a full week in Edinburgh. I
remember one eventful day when a party of two ladies and four
gentlemen, after inspecting Queen Mary’s Room, and the old
picture gallery in Holyrood Palace, passed into the guard-room
where I was in command. The ladies advanced towards me, bidding
me “Good afternoon.” The gentlemen remained behind.
In the best way I could under the circumstances I asked the two
ladies to be good enough to take a seat, apologising for the rude
seat which was all I could offer them. They courteously accepted
the seat, and, at the older lady’s request, I sat down
beside them. The talking was confined to one of the ladies, who
seemed, I thought at the time, of a very inquisitive nature. In
the first place she expressed her wish to know something about
the British soldier—how he was fed, whether he was
well-clothed, what kind of rations he was provided with, &c.
I gave her my opinion on these points as far as I could go. She
then asked how long I had been a soldier, and I said only a short
time. “Then you cannot tell how you feel when your comrades
are being slain on the battle-field?” “No,
ma’am, I cannot; but there is a man lying down on the
guard-bed who can. He went through the Crimean War.” I then
advanced to the old soldier’s bed, and said,
“Francis, there’s a lady here wants to know how you
feel when you are on the battle-field.” “Tell
her,” said Francis, without looking up, “we see nowt
but hell-fire and smoke!” “Well, what does he
say?” asked the inquiring lady, who had, fortunately,
remained in the background. It would not, of course, have done
for me to give the answer as it stood, so I replied, “He
says, madam, that he can see nothing but fire and smoke.”
“Well,” said the lady preparing to depart, “you
seem to be well clothed and to have plenty to eat.” As I
was showing her out of the room, she said, “If I were to
give you a Scottish pound note, would you share it amongst you
and your fellows?” “Yes, ma’am” said I,
“when we have dismissed guard.” Whereupon she placed
the note in my hand, and I thanked her cordially. I had not the
slightest idea who the donor of the note was, or who were the
people who had been our guard-room guests, until the next day. We
were then relieved from guard by the 78th Highlanders, who were
only about 300 strong, and had just returned from the Indian
Mutiny. It was while upon the esplanade, where there were a
thousand of the Waterloo and Peninsular pensioners assembled for
drilling, that I noticed my lady guest and a gentleman reviewing
the veterans. They were walking up and down the ranks, and every
now and again the lady stopped before an old soldier, spoke to
him, and, before passing on, put into his hand a Scottish pound
note. It was said that during the week she presented no less than
a thousand of these notes to the soldiers. One old hero, I saw,
got five pound notes. I asked the captain of the guard who the
lady was. He seemed much surprised when I assured him that I did
not know who she was; but greater was my surprise on being told
that the lady was the Empress of the French.

ADIEU! EDINBURGH—A DISAPPOINTMENT

Orders were issued for our regiment to remove to the ancient
town of Ayr—news which delighted me greatly. Next day the
regiment, numbering about a thousand men, mustered for the last
time in Edinburgh. The inhabitants of Auld Reekie turned out in
their thousands to see us march to the railway station and to bid
us adieu. The regimental band—which, by-the-bye, included
many able musicians from the West Riding of Yorkshire; Wilsden,
Haworth and Cowling being among the towns furnishing the band
men—played lively airs during our march to the station,
such as “Good-bye, sweetheart!” and “The girl I
left behind me.” At the station I met a sore
disappointment. Since the issuing of the orders of removal to
Ayr, I had been buoyantly thinking of what happy times I should
have in Ayr, and my feelings can be imagined when I found I was
among the detachment which was to be sent on to the barracks at
Hamilton—a small town on the Clyde about ten miles from
Glasgow. However, I determined to make the best of the matter,
and hope for better times. The two companies forming the
detachment, numbering about a couple of hundred men, reached
Hamilton all right. Within a short distance of Hamilton, is
Bothwell and its famous Castle; and during my stay in the
locality I paid frequent visits to Bothwell Castle and Bothwell
Bridge, at which latter place Sir William Wallace defeated the
English in battle. I also visited the magnificent residence of
the Duke of Hamilton.

IN CHARGE OF DEFAULTERS

I remember that on the first evening of our arrival in
Hamilton I had under me twenty or thirty soldiers, who were on
the defaulters’ list in consequence of being absent from
barracks the night previous to our leaving Edinburgh. They had to
all intents and purposes been out in the city bidding their
acquaintances good-bye, and had taken too long a time over it.
For this misdemeanour they were confined to barracks at Hamilton.
I assembled the men in front of the officer’s quarters, and
said, “This is our first evening here and a grand evening
it is. I should very much like to visit the town, and I have no
doubt that you would. Now, I have a proposal to make if you will
all stand by me.”—“We will,” they shouted
in one voice. “I propose,” I continued, “to see
the captain, and if you will promise that during your stay in
Hamilton you will not commit yourselves, I will try to get you
dismissed from defaulters’ drill, so that you can go out
and enjoy yourselves.” They readily expressed their
willingness to carry out the promise. I then made for the
officers’ room, and was admitted into the captain’s
presence. “Well, what is your wish this evening?” he
inquired. “A great favour, captain,” I replied,
“not only for myself but for those men outside. There are
over a score defaulters, and they wish to speak a word with
you.” “Where are they?” said the captain. So I
brought him outside before the men. He heard their case stated,
and then asked, “Do you all promise that if I dismiss you
from pack drill you will not misbehave yourselves during your
short stay in this town?” Of course the promise was
promptly given; but promises, like pie crusts, are easily broken.
Well, every one of the defaulters was dismissed, and sent to his
own quarters. They then went out of the barracks and had a
pleasant look round the town.

A DESPERATE AFFRAY WITH THE POLICE

All went wisely and well for three weeks, at the end of which
period there was a desperate affray between the soldiers and the
police. It came about in this way. One of the soldiers while
strolling on the banks of the Clyde one Saturday night appeared
to have insulted a lady. She gave information to the police, who
next (Sunday) morning, accompanied by the informant, came in full
force to the barracks. We had just fallen in for church parade.
The ranks were opened, and the lady passed among us to see if she
could identify the guilty man. Eventually, she pitched upon a man
whom all of us knew could not have been at the place mentioned at
the time given by the lady. However, despite his protestations of
innocence, he was handcuffed, and was about to be marched away by
a sergeant of the police when one of the prisoner’s
comrades interfered. He did so to a nicety, for he knocked the
policeman down. Then another policeman went to the ground, and
another, until the whole parade was one scene of commotion. The
police were badly worsted, many of them being more or less
seriously injured in the mélée.
Reinforcements were summoned, and many arrests were made by the
representatives of the civil power. The barracks’ officers
had no control over their men, and two companies of Highlanders
were sent for to take the place of our regiment at Hamilton and
to escort to Edinburgh Castle those of us who had taken part in
disturbance. At the Castle the men were confined to barracks for
a fortnight to give the police time to work up their
“case” for the court-martial, and in order to see how
the wounded policemen, who were being treated in the hospital
progressed.

I WAS OUT OF THE FRAY

I happened to be escorting two men from the hospital to the
parade when the outbreak occurred. I was conversing with the
regimental doctor, and took advantage of that circumstance to get
that gentleman to make me a certificate testifying that I was not
“in at the death.” However, I was sent for
examination with the lot, but I passed through the ordeal
successfully, the doctor’s certificate undoubtedly freeing
me. I may here mention that I have not been a believer in
physiognomy since then; for if a man had a rough-looking or
repulsive countenance he was as surely ordered to “fall
out,” and many men were so taken prisoners whom I knew were
innocent. In all about fifty were placed under arrest, and taken
before the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, who sentenced them to gaol
for terms varying from one to eighteen months.

CHAPTER XI

IN THE LAND OF BURNS

The incident mentioned in the last chapter ended in all the
men who were not committed to prison being released and sent on
to head-quarters at Ayr—

Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a toon surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses.

I was among the “removals,” and high were my
spirits at the prospect of a sojourn in the hallowed land of
Burns. To use a well-turned phrase, it had been the height of my
ambition to reach the birth-place of a genius second to none in
his way—Bobby Burns, the patriotic bard and ploughboy. For
twelve months I stayed in the quaint old town. Scores of times
did I visit the cottage where the world-famous poet was born. It
was a lowly thatched clay biggin; with two rooms on one floor,
and at this time was being used as a public tavern. The building
belonged, I believe, to the Shoemakers’ Society of
Scotland, and scarcely anything but the native whiskey and
bottled beer was dispensed at the house. The first room on
entering was utilised for cooking purposes, and contained a big
kettle—for boiling water, I was told, (whether in good or
bad faith) on occasion of extra demand for “whuskey”.
The farther room served as the parlour, and contained a large
oblong table, seated with cane-bottomed chairs. The mud walls of
the room had been boarded over, and the roof under-drawn, so that
an air of comfort was imparted. In almost every nook of this room
were to be seen the initials and names of visitors cut into the
wood, and the places appended to some of the names indicated
foreign visitors. The walls were completely filled with these
“carvings” and writings. I more than once looked
round for a little space to put Bill o’ th’ Hoylus
End’s initials, but to no purpose—every available
inch was taken up with those of my predecessors. A portrait in
oils of Burns, said to have been done by Allan Cunningham, one of
the bard’s friends, occupied a prominent place in the room.
This picture, in keeping with the general appearance of the room,
was covered with initials and names. A few minutes’ walk
from the cottage, and situated on a slight eminence commanding a
fine view, stands the Burns’ Monument, a beautiful Grecian
edifice. In the surrounding grounds—which are handsomely
laid out—is a little building which contains Thom’s
statues of “Tam o’ Shanter and Souter Johnny.”
The Auld Brig o’ Doon and Alloway Kirk are not far away. On
ascending the steps leading into the churchyard the first grave
is that of the poet’s father, William Burns. An epitaph in
the tombstone, written by Bobby Burns, reads:—

Here lies an honest man at rest,
As e’er God with His image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth,
The guide of age, the guide of youth.
Few hearts like his in virtue warmed;
Few heads with knowledge so informed:—
If there be another world, he lives in bliss,
If there be none, he made the best of this.

Going further into the old kirkyard, one sees the graves of
many of the bard’s friends, whom he has immortalised in
verse. At the farther end, close to the river Doon, stands the
ancient kirk—

Perhaps this old fane has been made more of in poetry by Burns
than anything else. It is inspected by thousands of travellers
who visit Ayr.

BURNS’ CELEBRATION

While in Ayr, I remember there was a great demonstration to
honour the memory of the national poet. The gathering was held at
the Corn Exchange, and the large hall was densely packed. Among
an influential company was Sir James Fergusson, M.P., late
Post-master General. Various patriotic speeches were delivered,
and at one stage, I mind, the meeting was put into great good
humour by the action of an elderly gentleman on the platform.
Stepping to the front he said “I believe I am the only man
in Scotland to-day that ever shook hands with Bobby Burns. He was
then—over seventy years ago—an excise man at
Dumfries, and I acted as his post-boy, taking his letters.”
These remarks had scarcely been made than several of the people
came forward and grasped the old fellow by the hand, and, indeed,
some all but hugged him. I was prompted to shake hands with the
“living memorial.”

And well old Scotland may be proud
To hear her Burns proclaimed aloud,
For to her sons the world hath bowed,
Through Burns’s name—
All races of the world are proud of Burns’s fame.

THE PEOPLE OF AYR

I found to be of a very genial and sociable disposition. Their
dialect is exceedingly pleasing—a good deal more so than
that of many other parts of Scotland; shires and district vary in
dialect quite after the manner of our own localities and
counties. I made many friends in Ayr, among them being John
McKelvey (who, with his daughter, Tina, kept an old tavern at the
end of the quay at Ayr), and Billy Miller (of the
“Thistle”), another celebrity in his way. Both these
were poets, or, perhaps I should say, rhymesters; and whatever
the old wives of the present day may think about the poet, of
this I can assure them—that in those days “the
lassies loved him weel i’ bonnie Scotland.” But to
get to my military reminiscences.

A FREE FIGHT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

With the exception of one “hitch”—and
perhaps that was enough—I passed my time very pleasantly at
Ayr Barracks. The incident came about in this way. I was out in
the “toon” with the orderly-room clerk, Sergeant
Delaney, the money both of us had in our pockets sufficing to put
us into high spirits. In our travels we came across a menagerie
of wild beasts—Manders’, I think it was—and I
was not long in observing that the members of the band which was
“going it” in front of the show were all men from the
Keighley district. The leader of the band, Dawson Hopkinson, was
a Haworth man, and his remains lie in Haworth Churchyard, a bugle
being engraved on the stone over the grave. Hopkinson had been
the landlord of the Golden Lion Inn, at Keighley, previous to
travelling with the menagerie. Other members of the band were
Bobby Hartley, of Keighley, and another named Joe Briggs; two
from Silsden, and one from Wilsden, all of whom were well known
at the time as able musicians. I felt in great glee at meeting
with these old friends, and marched boldly on the platform to
greet them. The result of my visit was that I invited the whole
of the band to come and have a drink at the Grossmarket Hotel
down the street. When they had played another tune they
“struck” and in a body followed me to the hotel; and
over glasses of “guid auld Scotch” we told tales of
old Keighley until it really seemed that old times had come
again. In chatting over some of the eccentric characters, we had
many a laugh about Three Laps and Job Senior. But the time was
flitting by fast, and my musical guests, it appeared, had not
left word at the menagerie where they were going. Thus there was
some justification for the line of action which the lady of the
show had adopted in rushing into the room and demanding
“why her band had given over playing and left the
stage.” But the bandsmen had supped, perhaps too freely and
too well, and consequently they were not able to give a clear
answer to her question. Right into the tavern we could hear the
growling of the lions, the howling of the wolves, and the
squeaking of the monkeys; and yet, forsooth! the bandsmen could
afford to laugh at the noises. Delaney and I, despite that we
were all out as far “gone” as the rest, saw there was
going to be a storm if we did not bestir ourselves; so we set
about coaxing the musicians to return to their legitimate duties.
After much ado we induced them to quit the tavern, and Delaney
and I followed suit, and started for the barracks. “Just
for safety’s sake” we went arm in arm, and as we
passed down the long main street we sang and carried on like the
proverbial jolly tars. Things went moderately well with us until
we got to a picture shop. Here was a large painting showing
General Garibaldi mounted on a white horse; and no sooner did
Delaney catch a glimpse of the picture than he drew his sword and
with it smashed the window, his intention being to wreak his
vengeance upon the offensive canvas.

IN THE HANDS OF THE POLICE

We were both of us now in a fine mess, and no mistake about
it. I stood dumbfounded for about a minute, and before I had time
to give my thoughts to deciding what we should do, two big,
brawny Scottish policemen had come up from behind and seized
Delaney tightly by the arms and deprived him of his sword. They
straightway marched their prisoner in the direction of the Town
Hall, I following at their heels and expostulating with them,
taking up the line of argument that if they only would let John
go I would advance the money for the broken window. But the
Scottish policemen—like their Keighley comrades, I suppose,
would do—held their prisoner firmly, and the only heed they
paid to my entreaty was in the shape of a threat—“Gin
ye say mich mair ye’ll hae ta gang along wi’
us.” I still continued to beseech the constables to release
“poor John,” but when near a place known as the Fish
Cross one of the twain suddenly gave back and rushed upon me. I
drew my sword, and kept him at bay for a few seconds, until a
butcher came to his assistance. The butcher stole up behind me
and robbed me of my sword. Now I was almost “taken,”
but no! not just yet. Seeing an opening in the large crowd which
had gathered I darted through it and down the street into a yard
where I knew there was a blacksmith’s shop kept by Louis
Gordon. I managed to get into the shop, but my pursuers were
almost at my heels. I was overpowered and very soon the
“bangles” were on my wrists. I was marched to the
Town Hall, followed by a vast and inquiring crowd. One of the
milk girls from the barracks wanted to know whatever I had been
doing, and I told her that I had been making love too freely with
John Barleycorn. Arrived at the Town Hall, I saw Delaney. We were
both locked up for the night, and next morning were brought

BEFORE THE LORD PROVOST

The captain of the regiment in full-dress uniform was present
in court, occupying a seat beside the magistrate. My case was
called on first. After the two policemen and certain civilians
had had their say, a doctor, whose name, I think, was Montgomery,
stepped into the witness-box and spoke in my favour. The captain
also gave me a good character; he said this was my first offence,
and Delaney was the cause of it. In pronouncing judgement the
Lord Provost said that as my captain had spoken so well of me he
would “give me the benefit of the doubt,” although an
offence of attempting to rescue a prisoner from the hands of the
police was a very serious one indeed. Under the circumstances, he
would fine me 40s and costs, or “saxty days to the
talbooth.” The charges against poor Delaney were those of
doing wilful damage to property, being drunk and disorderly, and,
to some extent, causing a riot. John had no defence, and no one
to speak a good word for him; indeed, his captain—who was a
fellow-countryman, an Irishman—gave him a bad name. The
upshot was that Delaney was ordered to pay 40s and costs and to
make good the damage to the window, or to go to the talbooth for
six months. My fine was paid by subscription among the No. 7
Company, to which I belonged, and I obtained my almost immediate
release. The amount in Delaney’s case was much larger than
mine, and it was not until John had suffered a fortnight’s
incarceration that his Company (No. 4) succeeded in getting him
released. I myself took the ransom to Governor McPherson, who
returned me 16s out of a £5 note. Poor John looked
well-nigh dead after his sojourn in the police cell, and as soon
as we got out of the gaol we made for an eating-house, where I
let him have a good meal. We then went back to barracks.

CHAPTER XII

REDUCED TO THE RANKS

In the meantime I had been tried by Court-martial, and reduced
to the ranks. Sergeant Delaney, on entering the barracks, was put
under arrest. He, too, had to undergo a second trial, and he,
like myself, was relieved of his sergeantcy and put back to a
private’s position. To me, however, this was no very great
trouble, though to a certain extent it was a mark of disgrace.
Dame Fortune soon began to smile upon me. I found a good friend
in Captain Clifford Lloyd, the musketry instructor to the
regiment. One fine morning, shortly after I was reduced to the
ranks, and while I was engaged in preparing myself to mount
guard, the Captain passed my room. “Ah!” says he,
“you’re brushing up, I see.” “Yes,
sir,” I answered; “I’m going to mount guard.
This is the first time I have mounted guard since I was reduced
to a private.” “Ah! well,” said Captain
Clifford Lloyd, “you see what a fool you have been to get
intoxicated. But I always said that any man can have a breakdown
in his lifetime; and if ever you have another chance you will
mind it?” “Yes, sir; I think I shall,” replied
I. The Captain then walked away, but he had not gone many paces
when he returned and said to me, “I’ll tell you what
I’ll do. One of my attendants, Johnson, wants a six
weeks’ furlough to see his parents in Nottingham. I will
let you have his place during his absence if you will take it.
You will not have to wait at the mess, but to accompany me at the
targets—fit up the targets, paint them, signal, and see
that all is right for shooting.” “Thank you,
sir,” said I, from a heart full of thanks; “I shall
be ready when called upon, sir.” The Captain then went
away, and I proceeded to complete my equipment for going on
guard. I was on the first post of the barrack guard. I had not
been walking sentry “go” for many minutes ere a
relief man came to take my place, telling me that I was wanted by
Captain Lloyd. I promptly repaired to the Captain’s
quarters, and Captain Lloyd told me that he had given Johnson
permission to take his leave on the next day. “Go,”
said he to me, “and tell the sergeant to strike you off the
mess, as you are now my fatigue man for two months at
least.” I followed out the instructions. My new duties were
very agreeable in one sense, for while being engaged only three
days per week (that being as much as the regiment could put in at
ball-firing practice) I had full pay. The next morning we went to
business. I hoisted the danger flags to keep trespassers away
from the range, and, with help from another man, I got the
targets in working order. The range was on the seaward side of
Ayr, and the targets had always to be removed before the tide
came in. I used to take my paint cans (the paint was used to
“face” the targets), danger flags, &c., at night
to a fisherman’s hut at the mouth of the river Doon. The
fisherman and his “guid leddy” were a very hospitable
couple, and before I completed my visits to their dwelling, I got
on very friendly terms with the family. To please the children I
gave them coppers occasionally; of a penny the children thought
about as much as a child in Keighley thinks of a shilling. Then I
made “bargains” with the wife, exchanging money for
“pulls” of brandy and “plugs” of tobacco.
Her husband, it would seem, when he met with foreign vessels out
at sea, would exchange with them fresh-water fish for brandy,
tobacco, &c., so that the family had generally a good stock
of these commodities on hand. In my new sphere of duty I had
plenty of time hanging on my hands, quite ample to enable me to
cultivate my muse. One of the pieces which I wrote was my verses
commencing:—

In a pleasant little valley,
Near the ancient town of Ayr,
Where the laddies they are honest,
And the lassies they are fair;
Where the Doon in all her splendour
Ripples sweetly thro’ the wood,
And on her banks not long ago
A little cottage stood.
’Twas there in all her splendour,
On a January morn,
Appeared old Colia’s genius,—
When Robert Burns was born.

BREAKING A FIERY HORSE

With the exception of one rather vivid experience, my career
as attendant at the targets was devoid of any particular
incident. One afternoon, when I had just finished my preparations
for the shooting, Captain Clifford Lloyd came up to me leading an
iron-grey horse. “Come here,” says he, “and
mount this steed; and take her a mile or two down the
beach.” The horse, it appeared, had just come to hand from
Bohemia, and was of a very fiery disposition. The captain said
she had not received her baptism of fire. I did according to
orders, and took the fiery steed along the coast. She proved a
very “wicked” animal, and a few yards prancing and
capering made me heartily wish that I was safely on terra
firma. Suddenly a volley was fired, and as suddenly the horse
gave such a lurch that I was within an ace of being pitched where
I wanted to get—though not quite so precipitately. Volley
after volley was fired, and I lost all command over the snorting
steed, which was flitting along at the rate of so many miles an
hour. Had it not been for a heavy guard-cloak which I was
wearing, and which by wrapping itself about the horse’s
body assisted me to keep my seat, I should most certainly have
been pitched to the ground. In my anxious moments I seriously
thought of John Gilpin, and compared his famous ride to my
own:—

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;
He little thought when he set out
Of running such a rig.

“Circumstances alter cases” we are told, and I
compared my experience to that of John Gilpin in the following
lines:—

Away went Hoylus, neck or nought,
In spite of wind or tide;
He little thought, when he set out,
Of having such a ride.
He held the reigns so tight and fast
As ne’er were held before;
He took an oath—if he got down
He’d never mount once more.
His cloak was like a parachute;
It kept him on his steed.
For ne’er a horse from here to Hull
Ere ran with such a speed.
He cursed aloud the unlucky star
That tempted him to roam;
And wished the de’il had got his horse,
And he were safe at home.

The horse wheeled, and gradually made towards the
starting-point. As I drew within sight of the captain, he
evidently comprehended my dangerous position, and came to my aid,
shouting as he ran along, “Hold on; halt, if you
can.” But I could not halt, and it took me all my time to
hold on. The animal was about at the fag end, and allowed the
captain to take the bridle. When Captain Lloyd told me to
dismount, I can truly say that I obeyed his injunction more
readily than I did the one to mount. I thanked my stars that I
had come off as fortunately as I did. The captain took my place
in the saddle. He had had a good deal of experience in
horse-riding. Setting his spurs into the animal’s sides, he
was instantly off like the wind. He went miles on the beach, and
when he returned the horse was foaming at the mouth and trembling
like an aspen leaf. To be sure, the “wicked” steed
had had a successful breaking in if she had never had one before,
and, when I ventured to hold the bridle, was as quiet as a
lamb.

BACK TO ENGLAND

I acted as attendant at the targets about six months, and at
the end of that time the regiment received orders to leave Ayr,
and proceed to England. The day came for our departure, and there
were the usual handshakings and embraces at the parting places.
Our destination was Pontefract. Half of the number of the
regiment accomplished the journey by boat, while the other
half—among which was your humble servant—went by
rail. As is usual in the circumstances, some of the men had taken
unto themselves wives during their residence in Scotland. This
they had done in an illegitimate or unsanctioned way, not having
sought the sanction of the Colonel of the regiment; so that there
was some difficulty in smuggling the Scotch lasses with the
regiment. As we were leaving Ayr there was, I remember, a young
fellow—a wild, uncouth youth who came to me and begged me
to get him over to England with the regiment. I told him that if
he would get his hair cut and tidy himself I would provide him
with a soldier’s uniform; if he donned himself in that
there would be a possibility of getting him over. He accordingly
got his hair cut, and when he had put himself into a spare
uniform which I had got out, he looked quite a different
individual. We all went to the station, and the train started. At
Carlisle we were allowed a “hot dinner;” this is
usually provided for soldiers when travelling at the end of every
hundred miles. But instead of a hot dinner, it turned out this
time to be a cold one—sandwiches, &c. In the
compartment in which I was riding there were several petticoat
followers, and, of course, the commissariat did not provide for
their wants. Therefore we set ourselves planning and scheming in
order to obtain some dinner for them. When we got to the
refreshment room, a few of us went in at the usual entrance,
obtained our regular allowance, and retired through the back
door. We then went round to the front again, and succeeded in
getting a second allowance, thus providing for the wives of the
soldiers. One of the women was the Scotch lassie I mentioned
previously, and who inquired so anxiously about me as I was
showing a policeman the way to the Ayr Town Hall one evening. The
journey was resumed, and Pontefract safely reached early next
morning. After a few days waiting the remainder of the regiment,
who had come over by boat, arrived. They had had a very rough
time of it on the sea, and several of them told me they never
expected to reach England. The sea was very rough, and during one
part of the passage Captain Selborne (of No. 7 Company) was heard
shouting to the soldiers to kneel down and pray as the vessel was
going to be wrecked. The regiment spent a few days in Pontefract
and was then disbanded. I had begun to be rather homesick, and as
a favour Captain Clifford Lloyd allowed me to have my pay (which
amounted to a nice sum, as, having lived with Captain Lloyd, I
had been able to save practically the whole of my allowance)
early, and I started for home a day or two in advance of the
rest. Wearing my uniform I walked on to Featherstone, where I got
into a train, as I thought, bound for Keighley. I happened to get
into the compartment where Mr Ripley, of Ripley’s dyeworks,
Bradford, was riding. We entered into conversation, and when I
told him that I belonged to Keighley, he surprised me by saying I
had got into the wrong train. The train, as I found, went no
further than Bradford, and there was not one forward to Keighley
at that late hour. Mr Ripley, however, took me to the Great
Northern Hotel, and introduced me to the landlady, telling her
that I was a young soldier, and ordering her to provide a bed for
me for the night, and to let me have anything I might ask for in
the way of food. Next morning I buckled myself up for going
forward to Keighley. But, thought I, I must not go home in my
regimentals. So I went to a clothier’s shop, and exchanged
my uniform for a fashionable suit of brown, and then I looked
like a thorough foreigner. I have hitherto forgot to mention a
Scotch cap which I bought in Edinburgh to serve as a memento of
my visit to “Auld Reekie.” Up to now I had not worn
the cap, but I now put it on, and continued to wear it for a long
while. “My old Scotch cap” led me to pen the
following verses:—

MY OLD SCOTCH CAP

I met thee first in happy days,
When youthful fire was all ablaze,
When lovely sun spread forth its rays
On bud and sap.
And now with pride I on thee gaze,
My old Scotch cap.

Were ever I ashamed at all,
In church or chapel, feast or ball,
In cottage, park, or famous hall,
O’ thee, old chap?
’Mongst rich or poor, or great or small,
My old Scotch cap?

I still remember with a smile
When we sailed from the coast o’ Kyle,
And took a boat for Erin’s Isle
I took a nap—
Thou wert my pillow all the while,
My brave Scotch cap.

I mind the night we came across
That dreadful common, called the Moss,
’Midst wind and rain, and tempest tossed—
And thunderclap
I did begin to fear thy loss,
My old Scotch cap.

And like Ajax, in ancient days,
When he defied the lightning’s rays,
I sought thee, ’midst the glowing blaze,
And found thy trap;
And caught thee in my fond embrace—
My old Scotch cap.

On terra firma or on sea,
Old cap I ken thy pedigree;
And if we separated be
Death’s cord shall
snap—
For I will ne’er abandon thee,
My old Scotch cap.

I reached Keighley safely; my parents again killed the fatted
calf, and right loyally did they welcome their prodigal son. I
kept from the fact that I had been a soldier while I had been
away, and for a long time very few people knew what I had really
been doing during my three years’ absence from my native
town. Everybody complimented me on my sleek and robust
appearance. In due course I applied to Mr Edwin Hattersley,
manufacturer, North Brook Works, for a job at warp-dressing, and
he readily provided me with one. For a few weeks I was made a
sort of god of among my friends.

CHAPTER XIII

BACK TO KEIGHLEY—I BECOME A VOLUNTEER

When I got home to Keighley, the authorities were busily
engaged in forming a corps of Rifle Volunteers in the town. The
commanding officer was the late Captain Busfeild Ferrand, of St.
Ives, Bingley. I was asked to enlist by sergeant (afterwards
captain) Henry Wright (now magistrate’s clerk at Keighley),
but objected at first, as each Volunteer had to purchase his own
clothing and accoutrements. However, I was told that if I would
join I should have my uniform, &c., free; and I believe I am
correct in stating that I was the first in the Keighley corps to
have my outfit on these terms. I became a Volunteer. At this time
the gentry of the town and district took a great deal more
interest in the Volunteer movement than they do to-day.
Tradesmen, especially, readily joined the corps, and it was not
long ere the first Company was filled up, and a second Company
started in the town. Entertainments were frequently given by the
officers.

CAPTAIN BUSFEILD FERRAND GIVES A BANQUET

One of these popular functions was given by Captain Busfeild
Ferrand. It took the form of a splendid banquet, which was served
at the Devonshire Hotel by mine host and hostess, Mr and Mrs
Cheeseborough. (Mr Cheeseborough was subsequently the
superintendent of police at Keighley). The fact that the banquet
cost the Captain over £1 per head may afford some idea of
the scale of its magnificence. The guests comprised the gentry of
the neighbourhood, and also many from a distance. Several
military officers of high rank were present—Colonel
Wombwell, Captain McMurdock, &c. The Rector of Keighley (the
Rev. W. Busfeild) was among the guests; also, his two sons, both
of them officers in the Army. “After a sumptuous
repast,” as the newspapers have it, Captain Busfeild
Ferrand rose and proposed the health of the Queen, eulogising the
excellent qualities of Her Majesty. The Captain was a very loyal
subject, as may be judged by the severity of his
threat—that if any Volunteer present did not drink to the
health of the Queen he would have him struck off the rolls. The
Rev. W. Busfeild proposed the “Army and Navy,” and,
in the course of a felicitous speech, mentioned that he was the
proud father of two sons who were now officers in the Army, and
of another who was in the Navy—a sentiment which was
applauded to the very echo. Other toasts were honoured, and
speeches made, and throughout the proceedings the greatest
enthusiasm and good feeling prevailed. There was one present whom
I shall always remember—the late Mr George Hattersley, the
founder of the firm of George Hattersley & Sons, and the
father of Alderman R. L. Hattersley. Mr George Hattersley was a
volunteer in the days of Wellington and Bonaparte, and was one of
the—if not the one—oldest Volunteers present.
“Our comrade, Mr George Hattersley,” was toasted with
musical honours and great cheering by the whole company. During
the evening Captain Ferrand gave some very interesting and
laughable anecdotes about his military experiences, especially as
a Cavalryman during the Plug-drawing and Chartist Riots. He told
us that his uncle, Major Ferrand, had commanded the Bingley corps
of Volunteers, and Captain Ellis, of Bingley, the Keighley
detachment. The time had come to pass, however, when they had
exchanged places, Captain Ellis being placed in charge of the
Bingley section, and he (Captain Busfeild Ferrand) taking the
place of his uncle at Keighley. The Captain went on to tell us
how he had a military “head” when he was a boy, and
caused roars of laughter by saying he had frequently bestridden a
donkey grazing in the field, and set off on the “war
path,” imagining himself some great general. Throughout,
the proceedings were almost inconceivably brilliant and
enjoyable, and it was well after the “wee short hour beyont
the twal” when the National Anthem was sung.

AN UNSUCCESSFUL FIELD DAY AT YORK

The first field day the Keighley Volunteers had was at York.
We formed part of the West Riding Battalion, and the object of
the gathering was a grand review by the Duke of Cambridge.
Unfortunately the day was a very wet one, and, in consequence,
the review turned out a failure. In those days the Volunteers
were not provided with great coats, and a torrential downpour
soon wet every man to the skin. Reviewing under these conditions
would have been decidedly uncomfortable and unsatisfactory;
consequently, the whole battalion was dismissed, and told to seek
shelter in the best places they could find. The Keighley
detachment went in batches into the city. Drill-Sergeant Chick
would have me to go with him into the nearest tavern. The
drill-sergeant was a remarkable man in his way, and over a glass
of ale he declared, with an unblushing countenance, that he had
been in some parts of the world where it had rained ten times
heavier for twelve months at a time than it was doing that day.
Of course, I, in my modesty kept quiet, and did not challenge the
veracity of the statement of this wonderful man. Yes; there were
some “fine” boys among the Volunteers in those days.
We had some very popular non-commissioned officers who were very
kind to us, which made it a pleasure to serve under them.

REVIEW AT DONCASTER

The next review was at Doncaster, shortly afterwards, when the
day was about as hot as it was wet on the occasion of the
abandoned review at York. The commissariat was ample for every
man, but it was generally thought that an improvement might have
been effected by substituting something for the “cayenne
pies,” alias pork pies. Each man had a lb. pork pie
and two pints of beer allowed. The pies were hotly peppered, and
we all declared that they would have given a dog the hydrophobia.
Then the pint pots for drinking ran short—a cruel
occurrence on a hot and dry day. Only half-a-dozen of these
drinking utensils fell to the Keighley detachment, and they fell
into the hands of six of the “smartest” lads in the
whole corps—Privates Billy Bentley, Jack Thom, John
Hargreaves, Ned Thretten, Jack Wilkinson, and Long Stanhope. I,
for one, badly wanted to quench my thirst, but was unable to do
so, for the above-mentioned six brave soldiers stuck to their
guns—that is, their pint pots, manfully, and there was no
prospect of a drink until they had fairly “put the dust
down.” At last, however, I managed to get a pot, but had it
taken from me as I was drinking. Captain Thomas Blakey went up to
Private Bentley and asked, “Are you a married man,
Bentley?” “Yes,” replied Bentley. “Have
you got any family?” “I have,” said Bentley.
“Well,” said Captain Blakey, “you’d
better take a dozen of these pies home to your children.”
“Does ta want me ta give ’em t’ hydrophobia?
Why, I wodn’t give ’em ta t’ cat!” But at
this stage “Fall in” was sounded. The parade went
through with satisfaction, and the review was as much a success
as that at York was a failure. General McMurdoch was the
Commander-in-chief, and he specially commended the Keighley corps
for the march past and volley-firing, and said his comments would
be forwarded to the proper quarter.

AN AMUSING INCIDENT ON THE HOME JOURNEY

The time came round for the respective regiments taking part
in the review to turn their faces homeward. The detachments from
the Keighley and Bradford districts entrained together. Every man
was crying out of thirst, and at Normanton one of the officers,
belonging to Skipton, had the train stopped. How we blessed him
for it! We detrained in a body, and rushed to the big pump on the
platform (used to fill the locomotive boilers). The water was
turned on, and, besides quenching his thirst on the spot, each
Volunteer filled his water-bottle. This was a
“movement” which took some time to execute; and it
was, I must say, very considerate of the station officials to
allow us to spend so much time to have a cheap drink. Major W. L.
Marriner and Quartermaster Barber Hopkinson (of whom I shall have
something further to say afterwards) were with us, both doing
their best to pacify their men until they could have their thirst
slaked. Quartermaster Hopkinson “had his hands full”
in looking after his “boys.” Well, the soldiers,
having all got their bottles filled with water, re-entered the
train, and the journey forward to Keighley was accomplished
without further incident calling for notice.

THE DRILL-SERGEANT’S DISMISSAL

When the Volunteers reached home there was the inevitable
reaction—the “review” men had “a drink at
t’heead on ’t,” and another, and another; and
for two or three days they were to be seen straggling about the
streets. There was one disagreeable incident that occurred to mar
the pleasant termination of the review, locally considered. That
was the dismissal of Drill-sergeant Chick from the regiment at
the instance of Captain Leper, who was the adjutant for the
Bradford and Keighley divisional corps. The
drill-sergeant’s offence consisted, it appeared, in
“speaking when not spoken to.” I have previously made
mention that the Keighley corps were complimented by the
commanding officer for their march past and volley-firing. When
making his remarks, General McMurdock wanted to know the name of
the corps. Captain Leper (a Bradfordian) replied,
“Bradford, sir.” Sergeant Chick, in his enthusiasm,
and knowing that they were his own men who were alluded to,
shouted, “No, sir; it’s Keighley.” This
“flagrant misconduct” on the part of a subordinate
incensed Captain Leper—this was seen by the
“wicked” impression on the captain’s
face—who was not long in telling poor Chick that he had
been dismissed the regiment. This was a hard blow to the
drill-sergeant, who had drilled his men so that they marched as
one man; but, to Captain Leper’s credit, let it be said
that he subsequently endeavoured to get Sergeant Chick
re-instated. The dismissal, however had gone through the oracle
of the Horse Guards, and to withdraw was impossible. Captain
Leper then found employment for him at Bradford in looking after
the orderly-room, &c., and with his remuneration from this
source, and a small army pension, the ex-drill-sergeant managed
to live in comparative comfort.

A DRILLING INCIDENT

Volunteering at Keighley went on in its own quiet and peaceful
way. I might, perhaps, mention one incident which took place
while the Keighley companies were drilling in the old Showfield
one Saturday afternoon. Lieutenant (or Ensign, I forget which for
the moment) Joseph Craven, of Steeton, was in charge of a squad
of us. Now, Mr Craven was somewhat corpulent—there was no
mistake about that, and marching about under a hot sun was
clearly not accomplished without great exertion and copious
perspiration. The members of the squad soon comprehended the
position in which their drill-master was, and they determined to
give him “quick march.” When he gave the order
“Quick march!” from the front, the “boys”
did march to some tune. Their commander soon found it necessary
to step from the front, and he was left a good distance behind.
But he soon discovered their little “game,” and
proved himself “quite up to their trick.” By calling
out “halt” at intervals, he found himself able to
keep up fairly well with the men. In his next drills he was
considerately allowed by Captain Busfeild Ferrand to go about on
horseback. Mr Craven was known among us as a very genial and
sociable officer, and he enjoyed the respect and esteem of those
under him. There were circumstances, however, which caused his
retirement from the Volunteer corps, after a comparatively short
service.

CHAPTER XIV

A MONSTER REVIEW AT DOVER

The Keighley corps, along with the battalion of which it
formed a part, and many other regiments from various parts of the
country, were next ordered to Dover, to take part in a gigantic
review there. In all there would be about 30,000 troops gathered,
these including both Regulars and Volunteers of all grades and
classes. His Majesty the King of the Belgians was to be present
at the review. The Keighley contingent left the town on the
Saturday morning before one Easter-Monday, and finally arrived at
St. Pancras at 11 o’ clock at night. We marched to the
barracks of the Surrey Volunteers, who gave us a right loyal and
warm reception, and, indeed, showed us the most extreme kindness
throughout our stay with them; and this good feeling between the
Surrey Rifles and the Keighley Rifles has, I believe, been
continued down to the present moment. Captain Irving evinced a
deep interest in us, and he remained with us until a late (or
early) retiring-hour, amusing us with his Cockney yarns. In the
morning we took part in a

CHURCH PARADE TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY

It was a pleasant Sunday morning, and I was out of the
barracks early, taking a few miles’ walk. I was back in
readiness for the parade, which saw us at the Abbey in good time,
and we were permitted to look through the beautiful edifice, and
admire and reverence the interesting national mementoes within
its walls. We took our seats in time for the service. Dean
Stanley was the preacher, and I regarded it a fine treat to have
the privilege of listening to such an eloquent sermon as the Dean
delivered on “The Passover.” I must confess that
there were certain passages in the rev. gentleman’s
discourse which I could not fairly understand; but, perhaps that
was owing a great deal to my attention being centred elsewhere.
Opposite me sat an elderly gentleman, clean shaven, with
close-cut side whiskers. This gentleman was very attentive to the
sermon, and likewise to his Prayer-book. Sergeant Midgley (who is
at present in Keighley), a fellow-Volunteer, whispered in my ear,
“Do you know that old gentleman across the aisle?”
“No,” replied I. He told me he was no less a
personage than Mr Jefferson Davis, Ex-president of the
Confederate States of America. Instantly my mind was
involuntarily set a-thinking about the American Civil War, and
its four years of human butchery—all brought about by this
man in front of me who was now coolly listening to the word of
God! However, the service was over, and the Volunteers filed out
of the church and marched to the strains of their drum and fife
band, which played rollicking tunes to the delight of the
rollicking Yorkshiremen. When we got in front of the Bank of
England, Captain Allan Brown (commanding the Keighley detachment)
halted and dismissed us until seven in the evening.

SEEING THE “SIGHTS O’ LUNNON”

We broke up into parties. Billy Bentley, John Walton, Thomas
Ackroyd, William Brown, and Ben Atkinson were in the party which
I joined. Bentley had served as a policeman in London, and knew
his way about the metropolis fairly well; Ackroyd had worked as a
tailor in the big city, and I myself had been there before; so
that we were able to find our way about very well. We went
through St. Paul’s Cathedral, and then on to Trafalgar
Square, passing, on our way, through St. James’ Park, just
outside of which we saw the cluster of monuments to the Crimean
heroes who fought for “England’s home and
beauty.” We also visited the Duke of Wellington’s
house, and spent a short time in Hyde Park. Having viewed the
extensive block of buildings comprising Buckingham Palace, we
passed into Regent-street and here the party broke up.

I MEET WITH A KEIGHLEY GENTLEMAN

It was here that I met with Mr Frederick Carrodus, brother of
the eminent violinist, Mr John Tiplady Carrodus, who, by the way,
paid a visit to his native town of Keighley a few weeks ago. Mr
Fred Carrodus had with him a gentleman whom he introduced to me
as Mr Hermann, pianoforte manufacturer, and to whom I was
introduced by Mr Carrodus as Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End,
the Yorkshire poet. For four or five hours we were bosom friends
and comrades, as it were. Mr Hermann knew his way about London to
perfection, and he took me to many places “to see what I
could see.” He had always his hands down to pay, telling me
that he would treat the Yorkshire poet as long as he was with
him; and that he did. It was tolerably late at night when Mr
Carrodus and Mr Hermann and I said au revoir to one
another. I made my way as quickly as possible to the Surrey
barracks, and my hurried journey must have caused no little
wonder and alarm in the minds of the easy-going Londoners whom I
met and passed. Seven o’clock was the time when I should
have been in the barracks but it was much after that hour.
However, an explanation to Captain Brown set matters right.

OFF TO DOVER—A STORMY MORNING

Next morning, about four o’clock, the bugle sounded the
reveille and soon after we were all in marching order. We
proceeded by an early train on the Chatham and Dover Railway, and
by nine o’clock in the morning had reached our
destination—Dover. It was, I think, one of the coldest and
most miserable mornings I ever experienced. The sea was very
rough, the waves lashing on the roadway; and the rain came down
in torrents. During the night there had been such a storm in the
Channel, the natives said, that had not been equalled for
half-a-century. The whole of the soldiers were paraded on the
Esplanade, but they were again and again forced back from the
edge of the shore, until there was really no room to pile arms.
General Lindsay saw the situation, and came riding up with
several officers, with whom he held a sort of council of war.
Before they had arrived at a decision, the waves had come over
the beach and dashed right up to where the soldiers were
standing. “It’s no use,” said General Lindsey,
“this review is a forlorn hope—I must dismiss the
parade.” He then gave the whole of the Volunteers orders to
dismiss until three o’clock in the afternoon. The men
dispersed in various directions, and just as they had got pretty
nearly cleared away, up rode the Duke of Cambridge and Prince
Arthur (now Duke of Connaught). The two Royal personages drew up
in front of a large hotel, and out of curiosity I remained
standing by. The Duke was in a very angry mood, and demanded to
know who had dismissed the parade. Upon this, General Lindsey
made his appearance in the doorway of the hotel, and, addressing
the Duke of Cambridge, said:—“Your Royal
Highness,—Owing to the severe inclemency of the weather, I
have thought fit to dismiss the parade until three o’clock
in the afternoon.” “You had no business to do such a
thing,” the Duke hotly replied. “It will be a
failure, and His Majesty the King of Belgium will be
disappointed. Send out your aid-de-camp to bring everyone
in—never mind the weather.” The storm was still
raging. I noticed a couple of steamers in the offing. They were
coming from France, and the passengers were Volunteers who had
been in that country since Saturday. The vessels could be seen
buffeting with the waves, and it was noticed that the funnels of
the steamers were missing, having, as we afterwards learned, been
blown away by the violent wind and heavy sea. It was about this
period that a small vessel—a gunboat, I think it
was—the “Ferret,” was driven on the rocks in
front of the Castle, and dashed to pieces. The crew managed to
get off by the boats. For a time it was believed that a boy on
the boat had been lost, but he was subsequently rescued. After
much delay the two steamers were able to land the Volunteers, who
told a terrible tale of their rough voyage across the
Channel.

I PERFORM A MILITARY TACTIC

In the meantime, the Duke of Cambridge was
“drilling” General Lindsey for dismissing the troops.
Wise, perhaps, in my generation, I stole away on hearing the
General instructed to re-collect the troops, and got into the
back quarters of the town. I finally found myself in a tavern
kept by an old cobbler, and he allowed me to dry my soaked
uniform. Through a window in the house I could watch the
movements of the troops who had been got together again. Soon
after dinner there was a calm in the weather; the rain ceased and
the sun came out.

UP THE HEIGHTS OF DOVER

I could see regiment after regiment ascend the Heights of
Dover. Now, a battalion of “stragglers” was being
formed, so, after having partaken of refreshment, I emerged from
my lair. I found a trooper in waiting at the end of the passage,
and he ordered me to double to and fall in quick or he would
“prick” me. I joined the “stragglers.” We
climbed the Heights together, and then each man joined his own
regiment. While all this was going on sailors from vessels
anchored in the harbour had been dragging big guns up the
heights; and, in fact, the preparations that were made favoured
the idea that a real engagement was about to take place. When all
was in readiness

THE SIGNAL FOR THE START

was given. There was a tremendous cannonading, which would be
heard for some distance. Then there were movements by the cavalry
soldiers, who, in their charges, trampled down hedges, corn and,
in truth, everything that came in their way. This did really seem
to me a ruthless and unjustifiable proceeding. The
manœuvres concluded with volley-firing by the respective
companies of the various regiments. General McDonald gave the
Keighley Volunteers great praise for their efficiency in
volley-firing. The sham fight lasted over three hours, and was
witnessed with apparent interest by the King of Belgium and his
staff. At the conclusion, each regiment went in its own
direction. The Keighley contingent returned to the Surrey
barracks, arriving about 10 o’clock at night. We found a
grand banquet awaiting us, and this, I need scarcely say, was
very welcome after a truly hard day’s work. The repast was
succeeded by an entertainment, at which there were vocal and
instrumental music, and readings and recitations, by several of
the Keighley representatives and the Surrey officers. Captain
Irving gave readings in the Cockney dialect, which immensely
amused the Yorkshiremen. The Haworth Drill-sergeant recited
“Cockhill Moor Snake,” and Bill o’ th’
Hoylus End gave “Jack o’ th’ Syke Hill”
and “Come, nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd
lad,”—the latter of which our townsman, Squire Leach,
publicly recited on his marriage day, and a few verses of which I
am tempted to introduce here:—

“Come, nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd
lad,”
Are words but rudely said,
Tho’ they may cheer some stricken heart,
Or raise some wretched head;
For they are words ah love,
They’re music to mi ear;
They muster up fresh energy
To chase each doubt an’ fear.

Very pleasant hours were those spent with the Surrey
Volunteers that night in spite of our tired and wearied
condition. Next day we returned to Keighley, only to find that
after our week’s absence the town had not altered very
much!

A VOLUNTEER DRAMATIC SOCIETY

We had found the Surrey Volunteers possessed a very good
dramatic class and a pretty little theatre in the barracks. This
led to the formation of a similar organisation at Keighley, and
among the members of the society were Sergeant Atty, Private
Thomas Ackroyd, Corporal Colley, Sergeant William Brown, Private
John Walton, Sergeant Roddy, and Corporal Wright (alias
Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End). We got a stage erected in
the Drill Hall, and purchased a drop-scene (in the centre of
which was worked in silk a representation of the coat of arms of
the Cavendish family), and all the necessary accessories. This
was all done “on strap.” For our first performance we
gave the comedy “Time tries all,” and there was a
large and influential gathering, including Mr Birkbeck, banker,
of Settle, and party. Mr Birkbeck afterwards invited the society
to repeat the performance at his residence. The proceeds of our
first entertainment were £14, and performances on two other
nights brought the sum up to £40. It was not long before we
had raised £80 and this was sufficient to discharge all
expenses incurred in erecting and fitting up the stage,
purchasing costumes, &c. The society continued to prosper.
Military plays were generally chosen for representation, such as
“The Roll of the drum” and “The
Deserter.” At last, certain difficulties arose which sealed
the doom of the society, and the organisation soon dropped into
decay. The stage, &c., were allowed to remain, and the hall
was let to travelling theatricals and other companies. The
dramatic society and the reviews which the Volunteers
occasionally attended at London, York, Doncaster and Liverpool
all tended to make my connection with the Volunteer corps very
pleasant and enjoyable; and I can truly say that in those days it
was regarded a great privilege to be a Volunteer. My membership
of the Keighley corps extended over fourteen years, and would not
then have been severed but for my removal to Bradford. Perhaps I
may wind up my Volunteering history with a few verses which I
penned on the death of Captain Irving of the Surrey
Volunteers:—

Gone is poor Irving, the brave
Volunteer—
The soldier, the man, is now on his bier;
He was with you all round, as well as the ranks,
Full of wit, and good humour, and frolicsome pranks.

He could mimic the Cockney at home or
abroad,
He could shoulder a rifle or handle a sword;
His word of command would put you all right;
He could talk to a stranger from morning to night.

But, alas! he is gone, and we now mourn his
loss,
For he’s gi’en up his sword at the foot of the
Cross.
And if there’s an army wherever he’s gone,
We know that brave Irving is second to none.

CHAPTER XV

IN SEARCH OF EMPLOYMENT

During my service in the Volunteer corps, I had my ups and
downs in connection with securing that employment which is
necessary for one’s maintenance. I gave up my work at Mr
Edwin Hattersley’s, warp-dresser, North Brook Mills, and
took it into my head that I should like to be a policeman—a
real policeman a la my friend, Mr James Leach. I learned
that Colonel Cobb, the Chief Constable of the West Riding
Constabulary, was on a visit to Mr Murgatroyd, a magistrate, at
Bingley, and accordingly went over to the Throstle-nest of old
England for the purpose of an interview with the Colonel. I was
introduced into the Colonel’s presence, and stated my
errand. Colonel Cobb plied me with questions as to my former
career, and when I told him I had been in the Army he wanted to
know if I had any references; he particularly wanted to know
whether I had risen from the ranks. I told him that I had a good
“character” from the colonel of my late regiment, and
also that I had worked my way up from a private’s position
to that of a provo-sergeant. Whereupon the old gentleman said he
thought I was a very likely fellow for a policeman, and promised
that if I called upon him in a few months I should in all
probability be taken on. In the intervening period of waiting my
mind underwent a change. I thought it would be safest to have
“two strings to my bow;” so, having a hankering after
a position as guard on the railway (intending, of course, to
commence as a porter) I wrote to the Midland Railway Company at
Derby, asking if they had a situation for me at Keighley. I got a
reply inquiring for references. Then I went to my cousin, Mr
James Wright, the manager for Messrs Butterfield Bros., Prospect
Mill. While willing to give me a “character,” my
cousin strongly advised me to accept neither situation, as he
felt that it would not suit me. I should, he said, want to be
more at liberty than I should be in either of the positions I
intended taking up. He expressed his willingness to find me
employment in the mill. I went home and “discussed the
out-look.” The upshot was that I decided to let the police
force and the railway do without me, and I commenced to work with
my brothers, who, in a building in Heber-street, did warpdressing
for Messrs Butterfield. I stuck to the work for a short time, and
then, with the temptation of more wages, I went back to my old
position at Messrs Lund’s, North Beck Mills. I remember
when I was about to leave the Heber-street establishment I was
much taunted by two of the foremen, who would have it that I was
going to Lund’s mill because Mr James Lund was about to
give the employees a trip to, and a treat at, his residence,
Malsis Hall. On the face of it, it did appear as though their
playful accusation was correct, as the great function was to come
off in a week’s time.

TRIP TO MALSIS HALL

Great were the preparations that were made for the affair,
which was on nearly everybody’s tongue. The spinning and
weaving trade was at that time in a very brisk condition, and
peace and plenty appeared to reign triumphant. At last, the great
day arrived:—

The day wor fine, the sun did shine,
No signs o’ rain to fall
When t’ North Beck hands, i’ jovial bands,
Did visit Malsis Hall.

Up by the hill o’ North Beck Mill,
Both owd an’ young did meet;
To march, I trow, i’ two-by-two
I’ procession down the street.

An’ Marriner’s band, wi’
music grand,
Struck up wi’ all ther might;
Then one an’ all, both great an’ small,
Marched on wi’ great delight.

Arrived at Keighley Station, the large party took possession
of a special train which was in waiting, and were safely conveyed
to Crosshills.

This jovial band, when they did land,
Got off the train so hearty,
For they all went wi’ that intent—
To have a grand tea-party!

Then to the place, each smiling face,
Moved on in grand succession.
The lookers-on did say, “Well done!
It is a grand procession.”

The “grand procession” passed into the park, and
up to Malsis Hall. A hymn was lustily sung, and then the people
were free to ramble about the grounds to their hearts’
content. Gaily-coloured flags and bunting were displayed in
profusion, and with the additional charm of the “pleasing
sounds of music creeping into their ears” the quondam
mill-workers could well imagine themselves permitted to spend a
brief interval in a very paradise. But when the time for the
“real” part of the feast was come, lo and behold!
there was a great disaster—

All but one sort o’ bread ran short,
but it wor no fault o’ t’ maister.
O! Caterer; thy bread an’ bun
An’ judgement they were scanty;
O! what a shame, an’ what a name
For not providing plenty.

O! Billy Brown thou might have known
To eyt each one wor able,
The country air did mak’ some swear—
They could ommost eyt a table!

Despite this slight “hitch,” we all “made
the best of it,” and succeeded in enjoying ourselves until
the evening, when the closure was unceremoniously applied to the
proceedings by a heavy thunderstorm:—

The atmosphere’s no longer clear,
The clouds are black an’ stormy;
Then all the comp’ny away did run
Like one deserting army.

Like some fast steed, wi’ all its
speed,
All seemed as they wor flying;
To escape the rain, an’ catch the train
Both old an’ young wor trying.

The people got into the train all right, and travelled safely
to Keighley:—

All satisfied wi’ their short
ride’
But sorry for the rain.

THE PEOPLE’S “TRIBUNE”

The above verses are included in a piece I wrote in
celebration of the trip. It was about this period I began to
spend a good deal of time in writing doggerel and rhyme for
publication in the local press. Many of my “efforts”
took the form of satires upon defaulting gentlemen—men who,
I thought, should be held up to public ridicule and censure. I
placed myself at the service of the people, and was always ready
to show up their wrongs under my motto, “Right against
Might.” For my pains in that direction I was often
boycotted, and occasionally brought before the magistrates. In
the latter case, an indirect charge was invariably brought
against me in order that certain individuals might take
“revenge out of me.” But I flatter myself that I had
as often a friend behind me to save me from “durance
vile.” On one occasion I was hauled up for refusing to quit
the old Crown Inn, Church Green. I had occasion to go to the
place where, it seemed, there had been a row a few minutes
previously; indeed, I met several men in the passage who had
taken part in the row and were being turned out. I made my way
forward and took a seat in the tap-room. Before I had been seated
many minutes a policeman came in and charged me with refusing to
quit the public-house when ordered to do so. I endeavoured to
convince “Robert” that I had not taken part in the
row, and that I had never been asked to quit; but I soon found
what a hopeless task I had set myself in trying to
“convince a policeman against his will.” On the
following Friday I was hauled up before the magistrates. I
defended myself as best I could, but was told by the presiding
magistrate that I was nothing but an “impudent
scoundrel.” However, the charge against me—preferred
by a policeman, and supported by no other witness—was
considered proved by the Bench, who mulcted me in a fine of 10s
and costs. Greatly incensed at the verdict, but more especially
at the manner in which the chairman of the Bench had “sat
upon” me, I resolved to take a course of action at the
expense of the gentleman mentioned. So the same afternoon, still
smarting under a sense of having been unfairly dealt with, I set
to work with my pen, and wrote a satire on the magistrate who
took the most prominent part in dealing with my case. By the
dinner hour on the following day (Saturday) I was in the
market-place selling copies of the satire. People bought with
avidity, and before Saturday went out I had disposed of a
thousand copies at a penny each; which returns enabled me to pay
the fine and then make profit out of my prosecution.

THE HENPECKED CLUB AND THE KEIGHLEY SHOW

My next effusion was partly in verse and partly in prose, and
was entitled, “The Rules and Regulations of the Henpecked
Club.” This club was connected with the Agricultural
Society’s Show, and made its existence felt on the Show Day
only. At the time of which I write, the Keighley Agricultural
Show was about one of the finest shows in the country. The
townspeople, then, took some pride in their show. The public
thoroughfare from Church Green along Skipton-road to the
Showfield was decorated in a gorgeous fashion. Flags, streamers,
and bunting, with scores of appropriate mottoes and devices, were
numerously in evidence, and trees were planted on each side of
the road and decked with all sorts of fairy lamps. Yes; those
were the good old days of the Keighley Show; thousands of people
flocked from all parts of a not very limited area to attend the
annual event. But the principal thoroughfares of the town were
not the only places which received attention at the hands of the
decorators, for the residents of such places as the Pinfold went
in for their own particular local celebration of the Show Day. On
one occasion I saw a stuffed donkey with a dummy rider on its
back, swinging on a rope opposite the Bay Horse Inn. The donkey,
which was the source of intense delight to the younger section of
the populace, was the property of one Harry Barwick, a tanner by
trade. Not far from here—in old Bridge-street, now known as
Mill-street—was to be seen a large picture, containing the
portraits, rudely executed by myself as artist to the club, of
some forty members of the Henpecked Club. The spectacle was of
the most laughable description. There was also displayed a
gigantic cradle, large enough to hold the biggest person in the
world in case of emergency. The cradle was supposed to be used on
the occasion of a member of the club being found guilty of
ill-treating his wife. The cradle was made by a practical wag,
known as Billy Bradley, who attended to it every Show Day. When
there was a clean sheet of actual offenders, Bradley contented
himself with “rocking” men who volunteered just for
the fun of the thing. Finish was imparted to the performance by a
fiddler, named Smith Keighley, playing “Rock’d in the
cradle of the deep” during the operation. Many were the
visitors who came to see the stirrings in this corner of the
town. I remember the late Mr John Sugden, of Eastwood House,
coming up in his carriage to see the fun and frolic, which were
practically the sole objects of the Henpecked Club. On one
occasion there was exhibited a picture, almost as large as a
stage scene, representing a trial in the Henpecked Club,—a
wife charging her spouse, before the President, with neglect of
family duty. The counts of the charge were supposed to
be—refusing to wash-up, black-lead, clean his wife’s
boots, put the clothes-line out, and last, but not least,
refusing to take his wife her breakfast upstairs. I recollect one
remarkable and unrehearsed incident which happened in connection
with the club on one Show Day. A man of the name of Shackleton
had joined the club, and his wife was so disgusted that she was
almost “wild.” Before the scores of people who had
assembled she protested “Ahr Jack isn’t henpecked,
an’ ah weant hev him henpecked.” It was, she said,
just the opposite—she who had been henpecked. Just as Mrs
S. was concluding her harangue a waggonette drove up, and all the
members of the club got into it in readiness for a drive round
the town “for the benefit of the Order,” as one of
them amusingly put it. This Shackleton was among those who
entered the conveyance, but no sooner had he taken his seat than
his wife went up to him and seized him firmly by the hair of the
head, exclaiming, “Come aat, er Ah’ll let ’em
see whether tha’s henpecked er no.” She stuck to her
spouse with such a tight fondness that he was soon obliged to
come out of the waggonette. Shackleton took the incident quite
good humouredly, and seemed to enjoy the mirth-provoking
situation with as much zest as the crowd of people who were
standing by. And this was a sample of the carryings-on in the
days of the old Keighley Show. But, alas! there came a day of
trouble to the people. In the period preceding one year’s
show an epidemic of small-pox broke out in the town and the show
had to be abandoned. Unfortunately that proved the deathblow of
the old Agricultural Society.

CHAPTER XVI

KEIGHLEY’S FIRST SCHOOL BOARD

The agitation for a School Board for Keighley in 1875 was
strongly opposed by many of the ratepayers. Both Liberals and
Tories were seeking office, and there was a third party which
entered into the fray. The Tory party said they would run seven
of the nine candidates; the Liberals claimed to run the whole
nine; so this third party came up to the scratch and said they
would run three candidates for the sole purpose of splitting the
votes. The names of those who composed this little party were
Joseph Fieldhouse, Bill Spink, “Little” Barnes, Adam
Moore, James Leach, Dick Royston and myself. Our meetings were
held in Bill Spink’s little cobbler’s shop. There was
no very great interest taken in the election by the public until
a certain incident happened. Mr Walter McLaren (M.P. for Crewe)
and I often met together at Mr Amos Appleyard’s
printer’s shop in Church Green on business connected with
election literature. On one occasion I went to the
printer’s, and during the few minutes’ waiting before
I received attention, I had an opportunity of perusing the
“copy” for a bill which Mr McLaren had just
previously brought in to print. The bill was to call a
private meeting of Liberals at the Albion Hall to select
candidates. Seeing a chance for a good, though, perhaps,
unwarrantable “lark,” I altered the word
“private” to public and, when Mr Appleyard
came to attend to me, handed the bill to him and asked him to
print it as a poster. He had delivered the bills to me the same
night, and I had them posted, with the result that, instead of a
hole-and-corner meeting, there was a crowded audience of mixed
political opinions. The Liberal leaders were completely
non-plussed. The people were asked what business they had in the
hall, and were ordered to leave. But they said they had attended
by public request, and refused to budge. The proceedings relapsed
into a state of confusion, and no business whatever could be
done. However this meeting served one good purpose, for it
enlisted the interest of the public in the election. The election
day at last arrived—March 31st. 1875—and it was found
that two of our three candidates (Joseph Fieldhouse and Adam
Moore) had been returned; Dick Royston being just thrown. This
was the general rule at all the local elections: our little band
of “conspirators” were pretty sure to return their
candidates, or a good majority of them. Eventually Mr James Leach
“put up,” and he was elected to nearly every public
body in the town; and this through the agency of the party I have
mentioned. At this time great interest was taken in many of the
elections, notably that of the Local Board.

REMOVAL TO BRADFORD

For a time my connection with Keighley was severed as I went
to reside at Bradford. During my stay I became mixed up with
literary characters—Mr J. O. Mee, editor of the Bradford
Observer; Mr Joseph White, author of a volume of poems and
several prose works, and others. I made weekly contributions to
the literary column of the Observer. I may mention that
many of my best productions date from this period, when I was
occupying a cellar cottage in Croft-street, Bradford. Perhaps the
Editor will pardon me for introducing my verses, entitled
“Joe Hobble; or, fra Howorth to
Bradferth”:—

They gave a lad a parkin pig,
As on the street they went,
Ta point ’em aat St. George’s Hall
An’ Oastler’s Monument.
But t’little jackanape being deep,
An’ thinking they’d nivver knaw,
Show’d Joseph Hobble an’ his wife
T’ first monument he saw.

As sooin as Joe gat up ta t’ rail,
His een blazed in his heead,
Exclaimin’ they mud just as weel
Ha’ goan an’ robb’d the deead.

PLAY WRITING

It was while in Bradford that I wrote the drama entitled,
“The Wreck of the Bella; or, the Life and Adventures of
Roger Tichborne.” The drama, which was revised by an old
Bradford actor, was written for my friend Joe Gledhill’s
benefit. Joe and a company which he got together played the drama
at the Drill Hall, Keighley, and the performance turned out a
great success. I had not intended any use for my production
beyond for Joe Gledhill’s benefit, but he and his company,
finding how it “caught on,” performed it up and down
the district. But its fate was soon sealed, for while it was
being played at Lancaster, I received an edict from the Lord
Chamberlain to withdraw the drama from the boards under pain of a
heavy penalty, as the last trial of the Tichborne case was
pending at the time.

AS A COMIC AUTHOR

Returning to Keighley, I turned my pen to writing for a comic
annual, which I had brought out under the title of “The
Haworth, Cowenheead, and Bogthorn Almenak.” This I produced
for several years, its contents consisting of rhymes and local
dialect sketches. I also started a monthly paper called,
“The Keighley Investigator.” After the first issue I
enrolled on my staff Theophilus Hayes, a gentleman well known in
the town, who assumed the editorship of the journal. He wrote the
leading articles, while I supplied the comic matter, satires,
dialect letters, &c. The periodical had enjoyed an eight
months’ existence when, unfortunately, my worthy friend, Mr
Hayes, was served with a writ for libel. He was summoned to Leeds
Assizes, and although the paper engaged eminent counsel (Mr
Wheelhouse, Q.C., M.P.), we lost our case, and had to pay a fine
of £50 and costs. Mr Hayes underwent a night’s
incarceration in Armley Gaol, but next morning I managed to
secure his release by paying the fine and all costs. The libel
action was, I must say, taken with an object by a party of
Liberals, through a certain auctioneer in the town. The fact was
that the paper was too “hot” to live amongst the
mighty men of Keighley. These times were very eventful ones to
the town in many ways, particularly in regard to libel actions,
for at each of five or six successive Assizes there was a libel
case from Keighley—a circumstance which caused the Judge to
remark on one occasion that Keighley ought to be called
“The City of Libels.” I next turned my attention to
writing my celebrated work, “T’History
o’th’ Haworth Railway.” I say
“celebrated” because the pamphlet ran through so many
editions, about 100,000 copies in all, being sold. With the
returns I was placed in clover; and now that I look back to the
time, I appeared to have money for any purpose except saving it.
In collaboration with a young man named Benjamin Hopkinson, son
of the late Mr Barber Hopkinson, surveyor of this town, I
subsequently undertook the production of “The Keighley
Spectator.” The paper went on nicely for eleven months, its
circulation and our revenue increasing greatly. We had for some
time received articles for insertion from a Nonconformist parson
in the town, the Rev Mr Gray. The contributions, being on
subjects foreign to our non-political and non-sectarian
principles, had almost invariably been rejected, until the writer
appealed to the printer, who was the proprietor of the paper, and
happened to be one of the parson’s “flock.” The
proprietor told Ben and I it was no use—we must insert the
Rev Mr Gray’s articles. Now, Ben and I were convinced that
to publish that gentleman’s contributions would be to kill
the journal, but the proprietor was firm, and so, as a protest,
we resigned our positions as joint-editors. The parson was put in
to edit the paper, and when the next number, under his hand, was
issued, it was seen that the paper had travelled from Africa to
Iceland, as it were—its contents were so cold and watery.
This, the first under the Rev. Mr Gray’s editorship, proved
the last issue of the “Spectator.”

THE GUARDIANS AND THEIR VISIT TO YORK CASTLE

In the years 1875–6 the town—and, indeed, the
whole country—was greatly interested in the conduct of the
Keighley Board of Guardians with respect to the Vaccination Acts.
The Guardians refused to direct their medical officer to enforce
the Acts, and the Local Government Board finally appealed to the
Court of the Queen’s Bench for a mandamus against the
Guardians, to compel them to put the Vaccination Acts into force
in the Keighley district. The mandamus was granted, but the
Guardians persistently refused to obey it, and the consequence
was that the Local Government Board applied to the Queen’s
Bench for a writ of attachment against the eight members of the
Board who had by their open votes defied the law—Messrs R.
A. Milner (chairman), J. B. Sedgwick, Titus Ogden, John Jeffrey,
Hezekiah Tempest, David Normington, James Newbould and Samuel
Johnson. Johnson afterwards promised obedience, and was released
from the attachment, which was granted by the Court of
Queen’s Bench. I shall never forget the
“rumpus” there was on Friday, the 11th August, 1876,
when the High Sheriff and his officers came to Keighley to arrest
the Guardians mentioned. Thousands of people were in the streets.
The Sheriff’s officers secured the Guardians, and conveyed
them to the Devonshire Hotel. About 2 o’clock in the
afternoon the Guardians came out of the Devonshire yard in a
conveyance, which, contrary to expectations, proceed along
North-street. It was originally the intention of the driver to go
to Bingley station, but fearing he would not have time for the
journey, he pulled up at Keighley station. Here both platforms
were besieged with demonstrative crowds. The train was missed,
and the crowd unyoked the horses from the conveyance. A number of
mechanics seized the shafts, and wheeled the vehicle with its
occupants through the streets of the town. Indescribable scenes
took place. William Smith, an auctioneer, who was suspected of
complicity in the Sheriff’s operations, was badly handled.
Finally, the Sheriff hoisted a flag of truce, and the Guardians
announced that they had been granted another night’s
freedom on condition that they would leave quietly by train the
next day. On Saturday the seven martyrs proceeded to York
Castle.

CHAPTER XVII

THE KEIGHLEY GLORY BAND

Much interest was taken, I remember, in the visit to Keighley
of a social and temperance reformer of the name of Captain John
Ball. He had two “lieutenants” with him, named
Mountain and Roberts, both good at “spouting.” Their
meeting place was the old Independent chapel in Upper Green, and
the services drew large congregations, many people of various
denominations attending. The work went on very well for some
time, and I believe that a fair amount of good was done; but,
unfortunately, Captain Ball “could not stand his
corn,” and—if Dame Rumour was to be
believed—frequently indulged in a “wee
drappie,” and occasionally overstepped the mark of
moderation. Of course the people attending his services made
great capital out of the ugly rumours, and one and another
commenced to pull the “captain” in pieces. Now, I had
all along entertained a certain respect for Captain Ball, so I
took it upon myself to defend him, writing a pamphlet in which I
gave prominence to the fact that it was the aim of all religion
to forget and forgive. The little affair blew nicely over, and
the congregation continued to hold together, until John had
another fall; and the climax was reached when he committed
himself for the fourth time by coming to Divine service
“blind” drunk. On this occasion one of his
lieutenants, who accompanied him, was not exactly sober. The
incident reminds me of the old ballad:—

Robin and Johnny were going down t’
street;
They called at t’ first alehouse they chanced to meet.
While Robin drank one glass, our Johnny drank two,
An’ they both got a drunk as my granny’s old sow.

It was truly an awkward position for any man to be in. Captain
Bell could not make a defence, and he was excommunicated from the
“Glory Band.” Perhaps the following verses, extracted
from my piece entitled “My Visit to t’ Glory
Band,” will give some idea of the incident. I paid my visit
in company with “Owd Jennet, t’ Ranter, fra
Havercake-row”:—

“Soa all wor nah silent,—they mud
hear a pin fall;
Fer nobody wor hissin’ or clappin’ at all.
Scarce hed long Gomersall spun out his yarn—
Wi’ his two blazin’ een he had scarcely sat dahn,
Than John stood up on his pins in a minute;—
An’ rare an’ weel pleased wor I an’ owd
Jennet.

“My brethren,” he sed, wi’ a
tear in his ee,
“You sall hear for yourselns my accusers an’ me,
An’ if I be guilty—man’s liable ta fall
As well as yer pastor an’ servant, John Ball;
But let my accuser, if faults he hes noan,
Be t’ first, an’ no other, ta throw the first
stoan.

“I’ve drunk wine an’ porter,
I do not deny,
But then my accusers hev not tell’d you why;
So ther false accusation I feel it more keen,
’Cause I’ve hed the lumbago i’ both o’ my
een;
Besides, mi back warked as if it wor broke,
An’ mi throit’s been so parched wol I thowt I sud
choke.

“Soa nah, my accusers, what hev you ta
say?
You can reckon that up in yer awn simple way;
But if ther’s a falsehood in what I hev sed nah,
I wish mi new hat wod turn into a cah;
So this is my answer, an’ this mi defence.”
“Well done!” sed owd Jennet, “he’s
spokken some sense.”

Soa his speech nah he ended, but it touched
’em i’t’ wick,
Fer we all could see plainly it wor nowt but a trick;
And Jennet declared—tho’ she might be too
rude—
If he’d come up to t’ dinner he sud hev some
home-brewed,
Fer i’ spite o’ ther scandal sho wor praad on him
yet,
An’ if he drank wine an’ porter who’d owt ta do
wi’ ’t.

WITH THE LATE CHARLES BRADLAUGH, M.P.

It was on Shrove-Tuesday in the year 1862 (I think this is the
number of the year; unfortunately I did not keep a diary, and I
have nothing but my memory to go by) that I accompanied the late
Mr Charles Bradlaugh, M.P., on a Secularist lecturing excursion
to Sutton and Silsden. At Sutton Mr Bradlaugh was well received
by the Radicals of the village, who invited him into a room,
where they entertained him to some refreshment. Mr Bradlaugh
“pitched” in front of the Bay Horse Inn, speaking
from a chair which I had borrowed from the landlady of the inn.
The subject of Mr Bradlaugh’s lecture was “More pork
and less prayer: more bacon and fewer priests;” and I must
confess that he dug his javelin with some vigour into the
parsons. The audience was for the most part composed of old men
and old women, who seemed delighted with the lecture, especially
with the thrusts at the “religious gentlemen.” One of
the old women exclaimed that they could do with some more bacon
if they could get it, and fewer parsons. There were, said she,
quite plenty of parsons, there being two of them in that
district. At the close of the lecture I went round with my cap,
and collected a few shillings. Mr Bradlaugh then went down to
Silsden, and in the evening lectured on the same subject in the
Oddfellows’ Hall, which was crowded at a penny admission
fee. Leaving Silsden, we walked to Keighley—the railway not
having yet been laid up the valley. On the way I had many
interesting bits of conversation with the man who later in life
was to create such a stir in the world—the man who was
first errand boy, then coal dealer, Sunday school teacher,
free-thought lecturer, soldier, solicitor’s clerk, and,
finally, Member of Parliament. The conversation ran mostly upon
soldiering, Mr Bradlaugh telling me that he had served for three
years in the Dragoon Guards, chiefly in Ireland. General
Garibaldi also occupied a good part of our talk. Mr Bradlaugh
expressed great interest in the Italian patriot, and said he
intended to join the foreign legion which was being formed in
London to assist Garibaldi’s army and help him in his
struggles. He strongly pressed me to take a trip to sunny Italy
for the same object, and recited some verses which he had
composed on Garibaldi. Mr Bradlaugh dwelt very little indeed upon
religious matters, only saying that if he were
“religious” he should be a Roman Catholic. Thus the
time on our journey from Silsden to Keighley sped very
pleasantly. It was almost midnight when we got into the town.
While at Keighley, Mr Bradlaugh stayed with Mr John Rhodes, who
conducted a small temperance hotel in the corner of the
Market-place.

THE HEROIC WATCHMAN OF CALVERSYKE HILL

A good deal was made in the town out of an incident in which
the watchman at Calversyke Mills played a “heroic”
part. It was this way. William Binns, who lived at Calversyke
Hill, just below the Reservoir Tavern, occupied one of the top
storey rooms in his house as a work-room for wooden models,
&c. One night he was cleaning up, and he burned the shavings
and rubbish in the fire place. There happened to be a strong
wind, and the sparks were wafted out of the chimney and over
towards the mills. The watchman noticed the sparks flying about,
and “in the execution of his duty,” informed the
authorities of the matter, and Binns was hauled before the
magistrates, and fined 5s and costs. I may say that in those days
few persons summoned before the magistrates escaped a fine or its
equivalent. In this case the action of the watchman was generally
regarded as ridiculous. Now, Binns was an old friend of mine, we
having been on the stage together, and at his earnest
solicitation I wrote a satire with the title, “The
‘Heroic’ Watchman of Calversyke Hill,” from
which I take the following verses:—

He swore by his maker the flames rose so
high,
That within a few yards, sir, it reached to the sky;
And so greatly it lighted up mountains and dales,
He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales!
And so easily the commons did swallow his pill,
That they fined the poor artist at Calversyke Hill.
Now, there are some foolish people who are led to suppose
It was by some shavings this fire first arose.
“But yet,” says the ‘hero,’ “I
greatly suspect
This fire was caused by the grossest neglect.
But I’m glad it’s put out, let it be as it
will,”
Says the “heroic” watchman of Calversyke Hill.
So, many brave thanks to this “heroic” knave,
For thousands of lives no doubt he did save;
And but for this “hero” the disaster had spread
And smothered the nation while sleeping in bed;
But to save all His people it was the Lord’s will,
Through the “heroic” watchman of Calversyke Hill!

CHAPTER XVIIITHE GREAT TICKET-OF-LEAVE STRIKE

This great dispute in the iron trade of Keighley, about the
year 1871, was known as the “ticket-of-leave” strike.
The “Iron Lords” of Keighley amalgamated and
practised a system of boycotting upon their workpeople. If a
workman left one firm and took up with another, the latter would
enquire of the man’s late employers what were the reasons
of his leaving, &c. The reply took the form of a
“Ticket,” sent under cover, of course, and
practically decided the fate of the workman. Containing as this
ticket usually did particulars as to the class to which the
workman in question belonged; as to the wages he was worth,
&c., the scale of ironworkers’ wages in the town got to
an unbearably low ebb. The masters held the full sway for a
while; then the workpeople broke out in open revolt against the
pernicious system of their masters, and thus commenced the great
“ticket-of-leave” strike. Early in the dispute I was
applied to by the strike authorities to write and expose the
unfair dealings of the “Iron Lords” of Keighley, and
on the first day of the strike I composed several verses to go to
the tune of the National Anthem. This was sung at the first great
meeting of the strikers held in the Temperance Hall. The verses
were as follow:—

Men of the iron trade,
Whose hands have England made
Greater than all!
How can you quietly stand
With the chains on your hands?
Hear you not through the land
Liberty’s call?

Long have you been the slaves
Of these conniving knaves
Now’s your relief.
Swear you no longer will,
Neither in shop nor mill,
Tremble for pen or quill,
Or ticket-of-leave!

Strike while the iron’s hot,
And let it not be forgot
’Tis sweet liberty.
Stand like true Britons, then,
Show you are Englishmen,
Make your shouts ring again,
“We will be free!”

This is only one of the many effusions I manufactured at the
request of the Strike Committee. I wrote pamphlet after pamphlet
(some sixteen pages in length) denouncing the unfair system which
the masters had put into operation. The strikers went into the
outside districts, as far as Bradford and on to Leeds, collecting
towards the strike funds. They took with them supplies of my
pamphlets and verses, which, so the men told me, won them much
sympathy, and, what was infinitely more desirable—much
money. But this system of collection to the strike funds was much
abused, as has been the case in the present coal strike—men
went out begging, ostensibly for the general strike fund, but in
reality for their own private funds. Individuals managed to
possess themselves of strike “literature,” and with
its aid found themselves able to rake in the shekels more
abundantly than they had been doing by their ordinary work; and
so the strike proved a sort of harvest to them. The strikers
received much support, I must say, from the publicans. In
particular, one Owen Cash the landlord of the “Devonshire
Tap,” provided free dinners as well as suppers. Then
“Bob” Walton and a pork butcher in Upper Green each
gave a whole pig; and there were many other gifts in kind for the
out o’ work workers. Of course there were those among the
strikers ever ready to take a mean advantage of a kind action. A
good many of the shopkeepers allowed goods on credit; but many of
the people to whom they extended this privilege failed to show up
again after the strike was settled. When this settlement was
arrived at, it was at the expense of the masters. At this
juncture the Strike Committee was not altogether without funds,
for they had a surplus of something like £40. There were
various suggestions made as to the disposal of this money, one of
them being that it should be handed to Bill o’ th’
Hoylus End for his services in the “strike literature
department.” This suggestion was embodied in a motion, but
the proposer got no seconder, and thus there remained wanting a
bridge over the chasm existing between the money and myself; but
the bridge is still wanting!

THE PARISH PINDER

Perhaps a reference in my “Recollections” to
William Speak (alias “Bawk”), the parish
pinder, will not be out of place. “Billy,” as the
gentleman was ordinarily called, occupied the position of pinder
for a score of years. He was well known in the town, not merely
on account of his official duty in taking care of stray animals,
but of personal peculiarities which made him a public character.
Yes; he certainly had his eccentricities had Billy Speak. One
peculiarity about him in the eyes of the townspeople was that he
was seldom, if ever, seen abroad in the daytime; but at night he
always appeared to be very busy. Of course rumour is rumour; but
some people went so far as to say when his “trade”
was slack, Billy would not object to opening a gate and allowing
the animals in the field to come out upon the highway, thus
affording a nice capture for the pinfold. It was also said that
the pinder had received many sound thrashings from farmers whom
he had met at night for these little acts of misdemeanour. In
this connection I may mention that on one occasion a goose
belonging to Jerry Wells was placed in the pinfold (which was
then in Coney lane) by Billy. The walls of the pound, however,
were so low that Jerry’s goose flew over them, and went
away—the pinder did not know where. Now, old Jerry Wells
was a man who enjoyed a good “lark”; and although his
goose had come home, he sued Billy in the County Court, on the
12th January, 1853, for “clappin’ his gooise
in’tat’ pinfowd.” How the case ended I forget;
but I think it would teach the too ardent pinder a valuable
lesson. Now, for a long time Billy had to go without a uniform,
but at last Barney McVay and others said it was a shame that
anyone holding an official position of this kind should not be
provided with a uniform. So that a public subscription was
started, and the pinder—to enable him the better to uphold
the dignity of his office—was presented with a uniform; and
at the same time opportunity was taken to uniform the
town’s crier, Jack Moore, who kept the “Dusty
Miller,” at Damside. The question of suitable headgear was
a momentous and difficult one, but eventually a helmet was
selected for the pinder, with a cocked hat for the town’s
crier. “Bawk” did not live long to enjoy his uniform.
He died in May, 1875, and was followed to the grave by his wife a
few days afterwards.

ADVENTURE WITH A SHARK

It was in 1872 that James Leach and David Hey and myself
purchased a large shark at Hull. The shark had apparently been
harpooned at sea, and washed into the Humber. It was secured by
some fishermen, and they offered it for sale by public auction. A
brother of George Swire, of Keighley, chanced to be in Hull at
the time, and hearing of the sale, he sent word to us at Keighley
about it. My friend Leach—who would be close upon sixty
years old at the time—was deputed to Hull to purchase the
shark, and he effected the bargain for £3 17s 6d. The shark
was seventeen feet in length; it was brought to Keighley by rail,
and there were many people to witness the landing of the monster.
We took it to the Burlington laithe (now used as an auction room
by Mr T. S. Lister). I painted a glowing scenic piece for the
entrance to the exhibition—picturing the shark swallowing a
whole boat-load of people! I was also put on to act as showman,
and in that capacity—not in my capacity as a private
citizen—I told stories of the voracious appetite of the
shark when alive. Many blankets had been found in the shark, not
to mention a barrel or two of beer. Leach stood at the door
turning a box organ, which we had bought cheaply; and David Hey
undertook to look after the naphtha lamps, &c. Well, for a
week the show went on very well, and we had large numbers of
visitors. Towards the end of the week, the fish began to smell,
so we paid Joseph Gott, taxidermist, Market-street, £5 to
cure the shark. In the meantime we purchased a tent and
additional naphtha lamps, and when the curing process was
completed, and we had had a box made in which to place the shark,
we started on our first expedition, going to Haworth. Our visit
here was attended by a slight misfortune. We had got the tent
pitched, and a good audience in it, when one of the naphtha lamps
exploded and set fire to the canvas top. Luckily we succeeded in
extinguishing the flames before they had done more than burn a
hole in the canvas top; and the aperture was covered with a
shawl, which my friend Leach was wearing. As on the occasion of
my visit to Haworth in the garb of a monkey, with Jack Spencer,
the Haworth folk thought it a joke, and swore that the shark
“wor made o’ leather.” But after they had
examined it, I think they were convinced it was the real thing.
We next took the show to Clayton, and here we were unable to get
lodgings, and had to sleep in the tent along with the shark.
Before daybreak we were leaving Clayton for Vicar’s Croft,
Leeds. It was moonlight, and I shall never forget an incident
which happened on the way. Certainly we must have formed a very
curious spectacle. A grey galloway and cart, with Dave Hey as
driver; myself on the cart balancing the long box; and James
Leach sitting with the box organ on his back. Leach saw our
shadow in the strong moonlight, and rather astonished us by
exclaiming—“There’s Bill o’ th’
Hoylus theear—he can wag his tongue like a lamb’s
tail; and Dave o’ th’ Damside—he can whistle
an’ sing an’ he’s a houseful o’ little
barns; by gum, I wish I wor at home wi’ ahr Sarah!”
The rest of the journey he seemed to be occupied in deep thought;
and when we got the tent erected in Vicar’s Croft he
“broke out in open rebellion,” and refused to play
the organ. “Nay,” says he, “no more organ
playing for me; I’m bahn ta dissolve partnership wi’
ye, an’ tak t’ first train ta Keighley.” He
suited his words to action and returned home. Of course this
rather upset things, but Dave and I determined to go on with the
business. Our visit to Leeds brought in a few pounds. Hey then
insisted on our going up in the Lake District. I objected
strongly, but had eventually to give in, and, to make a long
story short, we landed at Windermere. We did very poor business,
barely paying expenses; and such was the case when we moved to
Keswick and other places around the Lake District. We next
shifted to Morecambe, where we passed a very profitable week, and
then embarked in a fishing smack which was returning to
Fleetwood. We were overtaken by a fearful storm, and the
fishermen were fully occupied in keeping their boat right side
up. Hey was down in the hold, having left me to take care of the
shark. The sea swept over the sides, and I had great difficulty
in retaining the box containing our treasure. I shouted to Dave
to come and help me, but the only answer I got was that if he was
going to be drowned he “wod dee happy.” When we got
to Fleetwood, some time elapsed before we were able to land, and
when we at last did set foot on the shore, I said to myself,
“No more shark showing for me.” Luck seemed to be in
the way just then, for a gentleman who came in to see the shark
asked me what I would sell it for. I told him I would take
£20 for the whole concern—shark, tent, box organ,
&c. But he said he only wanted the shark. After much
bargaining I brought the price down to £14 for the lot, and
he accepted this, and returned the tent, box organ, lamps,
&c., and out of these Hey and I made another sovereign. The
gentleman purchased the shark for a museum in Fleetwood. Dave
o’ th’ Damside and Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End
were now rich for once in their lives, but—I almost shrink
from telling it—by the time they got to Skipton they had
spent every penny of the money, and had to walk to Keighley, from
where they had been absent about six months.

CHAPTER XIX

THE BIG PIKE AND THE PRIZE RAM

It was not very long after our adventure with the shark,
described last week, that Dave o’ th’ Damside and I
had a “go” with a monster pike. This pike was caught
in the old river at Utley by Sam Friar. It was of a tremendous
size, and, no doubt, had a good history; for, among other things,
the fish was short of one eye. Dave and I obtained possession of
the pike, and we had it on exhibition one Saturday in the
Market-place. I was again put in to describe the show, and I have
no doubt that I made the most of the
“recommendations” of the “one-eyed”
monster. At night we cut the fish up and sold it; and many would
be the Sunday dinners that the big pike would provide. Hey and
your humble servant next turned their attention to a fine large
ram, which had been purchased by Mr Patrick McShee at a sale of
the farm stock of Mr Thomas Brigg, Calversyke Hill. The ram had
won many prizes at agricultural shows, and we had it on
exhibition in a shop in North-street, now occupied by Mr
Whitworth, tobacconist. At the time, the Tichborne case was in
the public mind, so we gave the sheep the name, “Sir Roger
Tichborne.” Many people came to see the prize ram, the
visitors including farming gentlemen of the town and district; so
that we fared very well with our show. Then we added a monkey and
a bull-dog, and, what with the ram, monkey, and bull-dog, there
was a glorious row! But the greater the noise the greater was the
desire of the public to pay a visit to the show, and this
continued the case, to our unqualified satisfaction, for some
time. The sheep, being a prize animal, had clearly fared wisely
and well in Mr Brigg’s possession, and, whether it was from
heart-ache at the loss of a good home or what else, the animal
soon pined away, refusing to eat or drink, and its death, I
think, marked the termination of the connection of Dave o’
th’ Damside and Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End with
“show business.”

MR LEACH AND THE BATHS AND WASH-HOUSES

Soon after my worthy friend, Mr James Leach, betook himself
from “show land,” he commenced in earnest the study
of politics and local affairs. He managed, with my assistance,
&c., to obtain a seat on the Board of Guardians, and also on
the Local Board of Health. Then, there was a great agitation
concerning the health and cleanliness of the people, and it was
“ordained by the elders of the Senate that baths and
wash-houses should be erected and built throughout the length and
the breadth of the land.” According to the
“Chronicles of Keighley,” “the governors of the
city did not think it meet to comply with the law of the Senate,
and refused so to do. Whereupon other elders of the city gathered
themselves together, and determined in their hearts that baths
and wash-houses should be built, and that the cost thereof should
be defrayed out of the tax imposed on the relief of the poor in
the land.” This use, or misuse, of the public money caused
strife among the people, who for the most part opposed the
scheme. A vestry meeting, however, was called, and though very
thinly attended, the opportunity was taken to elect the
Commissioners of the Baths and Wash-houses, and it was decided to
proceed with the erection of the building, the cost of which was
estimated at £6,000. But when this money had been expended
the baths and wash-houses were far from completed, and, at the
request of the Commissioners, another £2,000 was granted
for the work. Still this proved sadly insufficient, and
“the inhabitants of the land began to be mightily
displeased at the conduct of the Commissioners, by reason that
they demanded more gold.” The people were for the third
time called to a vestry meeting, and on this occasion there was a
large and animated attendance. The Commissioners asked for
£2,500, and this, amid great tumult and shouting, the
people emphatically declared they would not lend: “One
named Leach sware that no more gold should be granted.”
After much lively demonstration, the meeting ended with the
decision “that the matter should not be entertained until
the end of that day twelve months.” When that time came
round the people were once more called together. The money was
still refused, and it was ordered that a poll of the town should
be taken. The poll showed a great majority against granting the
money, and the result of this decision was that the baths and
wash-houses had to remain in their unfinished state for seven
years. At the end of the seven years the building was, some way
or other, completed; and thus an end was put to one of the
greatest farces and pieces of blundering and mismanagement that
has occurred in the town—before or after.

ASTROLOGY AND BUMPOLOGY

It was a co-worker of mine, Joseph Hopkinson (“Joe
Hobble”), a warpdresser, of Haworth, who introduced me to
Jack Kay and Harry Mac, two fortune tellers who were in Haworth.
Harry Mac had a book with which he told fortunes, and this book,
which was an English translation of a Greek work on astrology,
Joe Hopkinson borrowed for me. I perused the book in the hope of
one day being able to do a little fortune telling. Harry Mac and
Jack Kay had done very well out of the book, and their knowledge
of it; but my object in learning to presage events, was not as a
means of livelihood, but in order to appease my appetite for a
bit of fun. It was while I was “reading, learning, and
inwardly digesting” the contents of the book that Professor
Fowler, the well-known phrenologist, came to Keighley and gave
lectures on the science of bumps, or phrenology, in the old
Mechanics’ Hall—now the Yorkshire Penny Bank. I
attended one of those lectures in company with Morgan Kennedy, a
Keighley man, who afterwards became a professional phrenologist.
When the time came for practical demonstrations the audience
called out for me to go on the platform. I complied, and the
Professor set himself to “feel my bumps.” In the
first place he told the audience that “this was one of the
few heads that he had had the opportunity of examining,”
which, of itself, was neither very favourable, nor very
unfavourable. But there was suppressed tittering among the
audience when he continued, “I have been on the Continent,
and have examined the heads of Louis Napoleon, Victor Hugo,
Garibaldi, and Louis Kossuth. This head, I may venture to say,
rather touches upon those.” I felt that the Professor had
got out of his reckoning in making these comparisons; for
although I had done a little soldiering, and was a poet in my own
rough way, I knew that I had no claim whatever to be a governor,
seeing that I had never been able to govern myself. However, I
got through the ordeal. The result of my visit to Professor
Fowler was that I combined the study of bumpology with that of
astrology, and I got on very well, and had some nice quiet fun,
with telling people—mostly servant girls in
public-houses—their fortunes, and describing their bumps.
Many people, I know, really thought I was a
“nap-hand” in the work. One incident I remember well.
A young man of the name of Tom Smith, a warpdresser, one night
came to ask me to rule the planets and tell him whether he and
his wife would ever live together again. I told my visitor that I
could do nothing for him that night, but if he would call the
following evening I should then be prepared to “invoke the
infernal regions.” He was at my house the next night, and
asked me whether “ahr Emma” would ever live with him
again. I said “Well, Tom, the first thing you will have to
do is to go upstairs blindfolded.” I placed a bandage over
his eyes, and sent him upstairs, having told him to walk quietly
across the middle of the chamber floor. I had suspended the beam
of a warp-dressing frame from the ceiling. Tom walked against
this beam, which swung back upon him, and, apparently, greatly
frightened him, for of all the screaming I ever heard, it took
place that night in that chamber. Tom was blindfolded, and, in
addition to that, the room was in darkness; and when he was able
to pick his way out of the “chamber of horrors,” he
beat a hasty retreat from the house. This is a sample of the fun
I had during my experiences as a humble advocate (?) of the
“art of professing to reveal future events in the life of
another.”

ALONE IN LONDON

Many townsfolk will remember Jim Blakey. He was a young fellow
who had many peculiarities in his composition. One of these was
that his mind was for ever bent upon travelling, and, not being
short of money, he was often able to gratify his desires. Knowing
that I had travelled a little, he would have me to accompany him
to London. After certain adventures on the way we got to the big
city, and secured lodgings. Blakey was not altogether well, so I
left him at our hotel while I went for a walk through some of the
parts of London I was already acquainted with. When I got back,
however, Blakey had “gone—left no address,”
and, besides, he was the paymaster, and the only money I had was
2½d. So that I could truly appreciate the situation of
being “alone in London.” I was wandering about the
city all night, and in the morning found myself going towards
Fulham. I was wearing a good big overcoat, and had also in my
possession a new copy of “Goldsmith’s poems:”
these I had resolved to leave with my “uncle.” On the
road, however, I fell in with a wedding party, and disposed of
the volume of poems for 3s 6d to the bridegroom, who said he
should make a present of it to his bride. Going on to Fulham I
fell in with an old friend from Keighley. I stayed a day or two
with him, and then sailed from London Bridge to Hull. From Hull I
walked to Keighley minus my overcoat. I found that Blakey
had not come home, but he returned in a day or two, and said he
had looked all over London for me. I thought he had deserted me
on purpose; so when we were in Edinburgh together shortly
afterwards, I arranged with a Leeds guard whom I knew to put
Blakey into a North of Scotland train instead of the one for
Keighley. This the guard managed all right, poor Blakey being
taken 200 miles further from home. When he at last got into the
south train he was taken on to Bradford, and he told me that the
ten miles’ walk from Bradford to Keighley at midnight was
worse than travelling the whole 400 miles. Notwithstanding these
differences, we continued good friends until he finally left
Keighley for Leeds, where he died after a few years.

CHAPTER XX

THE LATE MR LEACH IN LONDON

It was in 1872 that Mr James Leach formed one of a deputation
from the Keighley Local Board to London on business relating to
the erection of a new railway bridge at Keighley Station. Mr
Leach was accompanied by his wife. Arrived at the big city, the
deputation made for the law offices of the Houses of Parliament,
where they were informed that their presence would not be
required until the following morning. Then Mr and Mrs Leach
separated from the deputation and went their own way, the
“Squire” declaring his determination to see all that
was to be seen of London.

IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS

The couple first of all spent a time in the House of Commons
listening to the debate, and then they were introduced by Mr (now
Sir) Francis Sharp Powell to the (late) Duke of Devonshire. His
Grace, Mr Leach told me, seemed mightily pleased to see visitors
from Keighley. He stated his desire to “hear t’
spekin’ i’ t’ Lords,” and his Grace was
showing him into the gentlemen’s gallery, and Mrs Leach
into the ladies’ gallery, when Mr Leach objected,
exclaiming in by no means suppressed tone:—“Nay, ---,
it; they can dew this at t’ Keighley Workus, but let me be
wi’ ahr Sarah.” The Duke was good enough to respect
the feelings of his visitors, and had Mr and Mrs Leach placed in
a private box, where, together, they could listen to the debate
going on in the gilded chamber.

AT A FANCY DRESS BALL

After tea at their lodgings—which were at a large hotel
in Westminster—Mr Leach started out with his wife, and
eventually landed her into a place where bal masque was
going on. As the old gentleman described to me on his return,
“One o’ them hawf donned women com’ up ta me,
an’ puttin’ her hand on mi’ shoulder sho said,
‘Owd boy, you’re very welcome.’ Then she spied
ahr Sarah, an’ said ‘Is this your wife?’ But
ahr Sarah said, ‘This is noa place for me, Leych, an’
ahm net bahn ta stop; soa tha may as weel come.’”
With some further persuasion, Mr Leach went out with his
wife.

AT SPURGEON’S TABERNACLE

Next morning Mr Leach found that his presence would not be
required that day at the House of Commons. He went to hear the
Rev C. H. Spurgeon preach at the Tabernacle. “This wor
t’ one time I ivver really wept,” he said,
“an’ I resolved ta be a better man i’ t’
future.” Mr Leach next visited the Hall of Science, where
he heard Mr Charles Bradlaugh preach, and afterwards shook hands
with him. St. Paul’s Cathedral also received a visit from
the Keighley “celebrity.”

AN ADVENTURE AT EPSOM RACES

Next day Mr Leach paid a visit to Epsom to see the races. He
paid 1s for a stand on a stool, but he had not been in his
elevated position many minutes before the stool was kicked from
under him, and he was sent sprawling on the ground, this
provoking the crowd to great laughter. When Mr Leach looked up he
found his stand occupied by another fellow. Smarting from a sense
of indignity, the Keighley gentleman “set on” to the
intruder, and was struggling to regain possession when the police
came up and settled the dispute by saying that neither of the two
should stand on the stool. “Ah saw varry little o’
t’ races,” he said, “but ah went back to Lunnon
an’ saw ahr Sarah.”

ROBBED IN PETTICOAT LANE

On Sunday Mr Leach betook himself on a survey in
Petticoat-lane, where Jews, Turks, and representatives of nearly
every foreign nation were busily carrying on their sales. Our
country friend was warned by the police against venturing into
this locality. He said “they wodn’t get ower him soa
easy,” and passed on. But he had not gone far ere he found
that his pocket-handkerchief was missing. A gentleman had seen
the “trick” done, and drew Mr Leach’s attention
to a youth who stood a few yards away. Mr Leach had not forgot
his duties as a policeman, and he ran after the lad and caught
him. The prisoner was handed over to a constable, who was able to
arrest two other thieves on the spot. Next day Mr Leach appeared
at the police court, and gave evidence, and the trio were
sentenced to various terms of imprisonment. Our friend was
complimented by the Bench for bringing the case forward. One
evening Mr Leach found himself in the “seven Dials”
neighbourhood in the hope of seeing the famous boxer, Nat Langan
(whom he had seen have a “go” with
“Brassey,” a brass moulder, of Utley). He was in the
boxing saloon some time, and when he had occasion to look at his
watch, he found that article missing, only a bit of the guard
remaining. He raised a “hue-and-cry;” but, of course,
nobody knew anything about the theft. And Mr Leach took his
departure murmuring, “If this is London, I’m
done.”

THE FINAL DAY

The deputation was kept in London day after day, until several
weeks had passed. The final day at last arrived, and the
deputation was ushered into the gorgeous chamber. The petition
was presented, and Mr Leach, in answer to the President, and in a
dialect which must have puzzled the Londoners present, said;
“We’re bahn ta build a brig ower t’ railway,
an’ we think it’s nowt but reight ’at we sud
hev it. Ther’s lots o’ horses been lamed at t’
level crossing. Why, I were varry near being jiggered mysel one
neet.” Other members of the deputation having given
evidence in support of the petition, the party retired. In the
end the bridge was erected. Mr Leach and his fellow members of
the Local Board were in London about six weeks, and one cannot
help thinking that, with an allowance of £1 per day for
expenses, they would thoroughly enjoy themselves. At least Mr
Leach told me that he did.

MR LEACH’S THREE NIGHTS’ LECTURES

On his return to Keighley, Mr Leach and, indeed, the rest of
the deputation was made a god of, in certain quarters. In Jonas
Moore’s barber’s shop in the Market-place, Mr Leach
described his visit to London to a few “favoured”
customers, and provoked unlimited laughter. It was Jonas Moore
and Joe Town who induced him to give a public lecture on his
travels. An elaborate bill was prepared, “almost as big as
a house side,” informing the burgesses of Keighley that Mr
James Leach would give “three nights’ lectures in the
Temperance Hall, on his life and travels in London during his six
weeks’ commission from the Local Board of Health.” A
few frequenters of the barber’s shop in the Market-place
suggested that Mr (now Sir) Isaac Holden should be asked to take
the chair. Mr Holden was accordingly communicated with, and came
down to Keighley in his carriage; he finally consented to preside
at the lectures. Mr Holden was punctual on the first night of the
lecture, when there was an overflowing audience. This was, I
believe, Mr Holden’s first, or nearly his first, public
appearance, and the occasion served to bring his name very widely
before the people. He took the opportunity to speak upon local
politics. He mentioned that he had not the least doubt that the
lecturer’s intentions were good and honest. The lecture
consisted of all the funny stories Mr Leach could remember
concerning his visit to London; these he gave in his well-known
quaint style, in broad dialect, and the progress was frequently
interrupted by the hilarity of the audience. Mr Holden, I can
say, was quite “flabbergasted” with the affair, and
he looked as if he would have liked to drop through the stage.
For the second night’s lecture there was no Mr Holden to
preside. It was now Mr Leach’s turn to be uneasy. He sought
diligently for a chairman. The audience proposed Bill o’
th’ Hoylus End, as being Mr Leach’s right-hand man;
but the lecturer objected, saying Bill would most likely be
“drukken.” Finally, Mr Emanuel Teasdale, a politician
of the old school of Radicals, took the chair. After a political
speech from the chairman, Mr Leach continued his lecture with the
same general acceptance, and to an audience quite as large as
that of the previous evening. On the third and concluding night,
Mr Leach had even greater difficulty in securing a chairman.
There was neither Mr Holden nor Mr Emanuel Teasdale. The audience
successively proposed “Bawk” (the parish pinder),
“Doad o’ Tibs” (bill poster), Jacky Moore
(town’s crier), Bill Spink, and others. The lecturer
objected to each of these, and, in despair, accepted Bill
o’ th’ Hoylus End. I officiated as best I could, and
I utter no untruth in saying that I had a good deal to do; for I
had to undertake the greater share in entertaining the large
number of people present. Mr Leach had well nigh exhausted his
stock of lecture “material” on the second evening,
and on the third night I had to fill up the time with telling
stories and giving recitations. It can be truly said that the
three lectures were regarded as a great treat by those who heard
them.

MR LEACH’S FUNERAL SERMONS

Perhaps the “funeral sermons” which Mr Leach
preached on his two wives in the early part of 1891 were as funny
as the London lectures. Mr Leach said I should have to be his
chairman at the “sermons,” but when the day came he
said he would do without me, as he “durst bet ah’d
bin hevin’ whiskey.” I went to the Temperance Hall,
but was told by Police-superintendent Grayson, who was there with
two constables, that he had special instructions not to admit me
into the “precincts of that holy place” unless I was
perfectly sober. There was an overflow crowd in the street, and I
put it to them whether I was drunk or sober. There was a majority
that said I was sober, and Mr Grayson allowed me to pass in. When
Mr Leach saw me entering the hall, he called out of the police;
but finally allowed me to take a seat at the foot of the stage.
At the outset he declined to have me on the platform, until he
“broke down,” and said, “Tha’d better
come up here, Bill, for ah’m ommost worn aat. Ah’ll
gie thee ten minutes ta say summat.” I accordingly mounted
the platform and recited a few pieces I had
written—“Come, nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd
lad” (one of Mr Leach’s favourites), “Biddy
Blake,” &c. After the lecture, I went with Mr Leach in
a cab to his home. When we got there he said “They’ll
be tawkin’ abaat this at t’ Devonshire. Tak’
this shillin’, and go see what they’ve ta say abaat
my lecter.” I went to the Devonshire Hotel, and found
several gentlemen talking and laughing over the
“sermons.” However, Mr Leach had done his best,
“an’ t’ Prime Minister couldn’t dew
more,” as he expressed it. The delivery of the funeral
sermons marked the close of his public life. It was not long
after that he showed signs of illness, and I went to live with,
and wait upon him. I had often to recite my poems for him, and
one he frequently asked for was “The pauper’s
box;” he assured me that he would leave me enough to keep
me from being buried in a pauper’s coffin:—

Thou odious box, as I look on thee,
I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me?
No, no! forbear!—yet then, yet then,
’Neath thy grim lid do lie the men—
Men whom fortune’s blasted arrows hit,
And send them to the pauper’s pit.

. . . . .

But let me pause, ere I say more
About thee, unoffending door;
When I bethink me, now I pause,
It is not thee who makes the laws,
But villains, who, if all were just,
In thy grim cell would lay their dust.

But yet, ’twere grand beneath yon wall
To lie with friends,—relations all,
If sculptured tombstones were not there,
But simple grass with daisies fair—
And were it not, grim box, for thee,
’Twere Paradise, O Cemetery!

CHAPTER XXI

MR LEACH AT WAKEFIELD

Continuing my recollections of the late Mr James Leach. I
remember accompanying him as “valet de sham”—as
the old gentleman was pleased to style me to inquiring
friends—to Wakefield. The occasion was the annual visit of
inspection which a deputation from the Board of Guardians was
making to the asylum there. I recollect Mr Richard Hattersley
telling me on the platform at the Keighley station to look well
after Mr Leach. The deputation comprised, among others, Mr James
Walsh, Mr Middlebrook, Mr R. A. Milner, and Mr R. C. Robinson. On
arriving at the Bradford Midland Station, Mr Leach, on the plea
of “takin’ t’ twist out on ’em,”
sent me for an open landau and a couple of horses and a coachman,
and thus he proceeded “in state” to the Lancashire
and Yorkshire Station. The train again entered, the journey was
soon completed to Wakefield. The deputation in general did the
distance to the asylum—about a mile—on foot, but for
Mr Leach, I had again to requisition a two-horsed landau. We were
driven up to the asylum entrance, and ushered into the reception
room. The governor of the asylum asked me who the old gentleman
was, and I told him he was “James Leach, Esquire, a
Guardian, from Keighley.” “He’s a funny
fellow,” said the governor, “I couldn’t tell
whether he was coming in as a patient or not.” By way of
re-assurance I told the governor that Mr Leach had had a stroke,
which rather accounted for his “acting funny.” The
other members of the deputation had now arrived, and the whole
were shown into a private room. There the Guardians sat as a
Board, with Mr Middlebrook as chairman, and the thirty-six
lunatics from the Keighley Union were brought in. One or two of
the patients I recognised. Several of them were ready to be
discharged, having been passed by the doctor. The inspection
over, Mr Leach expressed a desire to see the patients dine. He
was introduced into the large dining hall, and took a great
interest in “watchin’ t’ lunies feed,” as
he put it. At the close of the repast, Mr Leach commissioned me
to distribute 1lb. of tobacco among the men—½lb. in
twist, and ½lb. in shag. No sooner did the lunatics see
the tobacco than they commenced a vigorous attack on me—I
had lunatics to the right and to the left of me, and in front,
behind, and on top of me. There must have been no less than
half-a-dozen on my shoulders at one time, and some of the fellows
obtained a good deal more than their share of the tobacco. Mr
Leach had apparently witnessed the distribution with much
interest, and when I came up to him he said, “been in
Wombwell’s menagerie, but ah’ve nivver bin i’
sich a furacious attack as this before.” He then retired,
and on leaving the asylum I heard him ask the governor if he
would allow himself and his “valet de sham” to stay a
few weeks in the place, promising to pay all dues and demands.
The governor, however, said he would not be able to do that
without a certificate. So, after bidding the Asylum governor good
day, Mr Leach and I took our departure. I had again to obtain an
open carriage to take us to the Bull Inn, where dinner was to be
served. Dinner was waiting when we got there. “Isn’t
it a bonny shame” said Mr Leach, “for us to be
hevin’ a 7s 6d dinner aht o’ t’ rates?”
“Nay,” says the landlord, “you do your work for
nothing.” “Hahivver,” said Mr Leach,
“Ah’ll hev my dinner, but this ‘valet de
sham’ o’ mine weant hev owt here; Ah’ll be
beyont suspicion.” With that he handed me 4s and I went
down into Wakefield and got a good repast. On my return to the
Bull Inn, I found Mr Leach sat on a basket of potatoes at the
door. It transpired that he had been turned out of the hotel, and
a chair having been denied him on which to sit and wait at the
door, he had bought a basket of potatoes from a hawker who was
passing, and utilised it as a temporary seat. Whatever had taken
place, Mr Leach was greatly excited, and it was with no little
difficulty that I got him to the station. We reached Keighley
safely, and then, with the aid of a cab from the station, I was
soon able to restore my old friend to “their Sarah.”
I received 10s for that day’s services.

SLACK-LANE BAPTIST CHAPEL

Many people will remember the old shake-down trap which Mr
Leach used to run some years ago. He often drove up to Tewitt
Hall, Oakworth, and Slack-lane Chapel. For some time he seemed to
set his mind on purchasing Tewitt Hall. About the Chapel, he told
me some wonderful stories. He used to say that his relatives
founded Slack-lane Chapel, and that his mother received in their
house the first parson who came to the district.

A VISIT TO CLIFFE CASTLE

Mr Leach, I know, fondly treasured in his memory a visit which
he paid to Cliffe Castle, in 1886, on the occasion of the
“White Ball” given by Mr Butterfield. I was not a
little astonished when Mr Leach told me one morning,
“Tha’ll hev ta goa wi’ me ta t’ ball,
Bill; ah’ve bowt thee a ten-an’-sixpenny
ticket.” However, I did not care to intrude my presence on
such a “flash” gathering as I knew there would be,
and when the time arrived for my “master” to start, I
was missing. Mr Leach was, nevertheless, determined “ta
visit t’ Cliff,” and as a last resort he summoned his
old friend “Little” Barnes to accompany him. The two
attended the “White Ball;” but I don’t think
either of them participated in the dancing. Mr Leach afterwards
told me that they were nicely entertained by Mr Butterfield, who
had a long chat with him, and expressed a wish to have a chat
with him at some other time on public matters. One of the topics
which engaged Mr Butterfield and Mr Leach was a public park for
the town.

MR LEACH AND DEVONSHIRE PARK

It is an acknowledged fact that to Mr Leach was due no small
measure of credit in connection with the securing of Devonshire
Park for Keighley. His pet idea for a public park was originally
the Showfield in Skipton-road. On one occasion Hawkcliffe Wood
came into the market, and was suggested as a suitable park for
the public. Mr Leach opposed this scheme tooth and
nail—“ther wor too monny hoils an’ caves abaat.
They’d be capt if somebody gat dahn one o’ t’
hoils an’ wor nivver seen ageean.” A public meeting
was held in the Drill Hall to test the public feeling as to the
purchase of Hawkcliffe Wood. Mr W. A. Robinson, I believe, was
the principal speaker on the affirmative side, and Mr Leach
strongly opposed the scheme of purchase. Next day, however, the
question was settled by the announcement that Mr Butterfield
(whose estate agent, Mr James Wright, had attended the meeting)
had successfully negotiated with Messrs Dixon, of Steeton, for
the purchase of the Wood. Having practically scored on this
point, Mr Leach next turned his attention very vigorously to the
Showfield. He superintended the making-out of a petition to the
Duke of Devonshire, asking his Grace to make a grant of the
Showfield for a town’s park. The petition was numerously
signed, and was duly forwarded through the Local Board to the
Duke. His Grace could not see his way to accede to the
petitioners’ wishes, but it was some gratification to Mr
Leach to hear that the Duke would probably see his way to do
something later—a promise consummated in the presentation
to the town of what is known as Devonshire Park. Mr W. Laycock
(the Duke’s steward) assured Mr Leach that he was the first
man whom the Duke of Devonshire had recognised in this way, and
that he was the means of securing the first public park for
Keighley.

MR LEACH’S EPITAPH

The last request which Mr Leach made to me was to write an
epitaph to be engraved on the south side of the tombstone over
his grave. I have penned the following lines:—

O! Passer-by, pray cast an eye
Upon this ponderous dome,
Where lieth one of nature’s sons
Inside the vaulted tomb.

For weel, I wot, it took a lot
To weigh him from his birth,
But nature thought she’d send him back
To join his Mother Earth

So now he’s quiet, both day and night,
No one can hear his speech;
And waiting to be reckoned up,—
Alas! poor Mr. Leach.

CHAPTER XXII

EXILED FROM KEIGHLEY

With an apology for digressing for the last two weeks from my
own Recollections, I now hasten to continue my story. Going back
to 1872, it was in that year I passed my second term of residence
in Bradford. This time I was, to some extent, an
exile—driven from home. It was brought about in this way. I
was keeping a grocer’s shop in Westgate at the time, and
one day, while I was away at my employment for Messrs Lund in
Heber-street, a traveller for a Leeds firm of drysalters called
at the shop, and forced upon my wife, who was in charge, several
pounds’ worth of goods. Of course, when I got home I kicked
up a “shine,” and distinctly said I should not accept
the goods, which I sent back to Leeds. My returning the goods,
however, did not mend my case, and I was summoned to Leeds to
“show cause,” &c. But I treated the court with
contempt by not attending, and an execution was issued against me
forthwith. I have a keen remembrance of the visit which Mr John
Scott, the bailiff at the Keighley County Court, paid to my
house. Mr Scott said he had got Sheriff’s orders to sell me
up or arrest me. I told him that I had a great fear of going to
gaol, and asked him if he would go and ask his brother, Mr W. M.
Scott, the high bailiff, to allow me until 9 o’clock on the
following morning in which to make an effort to raise the money.
The “bum” had scarcely got out of sight ere I was in
consultation with John Parker, the landlord of the Bay Horse Inn.
John rather pitied me. He agreed to lend me his horse, and I
borrowed a van from Mr Joseph Wright, cabinet maker, determined
to give my would-be captors the “leg bail.” Early
next morning I was, so to speak, doing a moonlight
“flit”—the van, containing my furniture, in
charge of two men, was on the road to Bradford. Mrs Wright I left
with friends at Keighley, and myself, accomplished the journey by
rail. I spent some time at the top of Manchester road, Bradford,
looking for a suitable house, and had almost resolved to give up
the search in that quarter when I made the acquaintance of an old
lady, who said she had a nice house—which vacant house
isn’t a nice one?—to let at 9s 6d per week. This was
a large figure, but, under the trying circumstances, I agreed to
rent the house. An hour or so afterwards the van arrived, and
having got my goods and chattels into the house, I dismissed the
two men, enjoining them to strict secrecy as to my whereabouts.
Having got the house into something like ship shape order, I set
about devising a nom de plume and eventually fixed upon
“James Wrightson,” which seemed to fit best, seeing
that I was James Wright’s son.

IN BRADFORD—AS PATTERN DRESSER

Next day I managed to secure employment as pattern dresser
with Messrs Ward and Bottomley, manufacturers. My stay there,
however, was only short, owing to a disagreement with my foreman
on a political subject. I then called upon Mr Wade, manufacturer,
for whom I had worked at Morton. Mr F. S. Pearson, now of
Keighley, was the manager of the warp sizing department in the
fancy trade. Mr Pearson set me on, and I continued in Mr
Wade’s employ for about twelve months, having a very
profitable situation.

AS WARP-SIZING INSPECTOR

One day I was met by a gentleman who asked me if I would act
as his warp-sizing inspector, promising me a very comfortable
salary. This gentleman, or his firm, carried on the business of
warp-sizing, and he explained that it would be my duty to go
round to different factories to assess the damage, if any, done
to warps which had been sent from those factories to be sized. I
was pressed very much to take this position, and ultimately I
accepted it. The business, I learned, was in the hands of Mr
Ward, and was formerly owned by Mr Titus Gaukroger. My new duties
were accompanied with difficulties, though after a time I got
along fairly well. I found out many little things, among which
were not a few cases of manufacturers—bosom friends,
socially—defrauding each other. I had occupied the position
of warp-dressing inspector about six months, when the hand
of—Fate, shall I say? was again placed upon me. An old
friend of mine—Christopher Brown, a native of
Haworth—popped in to see me. He had been away for some time
in Canada, where he had made a good sum of money. He spoke to my
master, and obtained for me two or three days’ leave of
absence. This proved the greatest breakdown that ever happened to
me. I stayed a day or two with Mr Brown, who then suggested that
I should extend my holiday. I was always easily persuaded, and
this time was no exception. There was plenty of money to go at,
and Mr Brown induced me to travel to Middlesbro’ with him.
From there we visited many places, being absent from Bradford
about a fortnight. On returning to my employment, I found that my
place had been filled. Mr Ward, after hearing my story, expressed
himself very sorry for me. He said he kept my place vacant for
eight or nine days, but was then compelled to fill it up.

AS “BUM” BAILIFF

I was thus again a workless worker. But not for long. I fell
in with an auctioneer, who set me on as a sort of
“bum” bailiff. This auctioneer had Douglas Mills and
Victoria Mills, Bradford, on his hands for sale, and required
someone to watch them. I was in charge of Douglas Mills for three
weeks, and a fine time I had. The spinning frames and other
machinery had been sold to Messrs Binns and Masker, brokers, of
Keighley, but there were many odds and ends left, which I was
given permission to realise. These “odds and ends”
included all the leather, cotton waste, and loose wood about the
place, and the proceeds from the sale of these, in addition to my
weekly wage, tended to a not inconsiderable sum. Perhaps it was
this extraordinary “flush” of money that caused me to
have sufficient courage to venture back to Keighley. (I may say
that I had not during my absence from the town encountered my
friend, the drysalter.)

BACK TO KEIGHLEY

It was 1876 when I returned home. It was just before the
Liberal club was opened by the Marquis of Hartington. The
occasion, I may say, was made a great “to
do”—what with the elaborate opening ceremonial, the
procession in the street, and the great banquet at Dalton Mills
(which had just been built). I wrote some twenty verses
descriptive of the event, and these I had printed and ready for
distribution before the banquet commenced. I was introduced to
the ducal party, which, in addition to the Marquis of Hartington,
included his brother, Lord Frederick Cavendish, Lord Houghton,
and others. Perhaps I shall not be thought unduly egotistical for
mentioning that Lord Houghton, who is a poet of no mean order,
commended my verses.

THE ORDER OF BUFFALOES

While in Bradford, I became acquainted with many members of
the Royal Order of Ante-diluvian Buffaloes. A lodge was held at
the Hope and Anchor Inn, and the meetings were attended by many
professional gentlemen, including Wallett, the Queen’s
jester, at times. Before I left Bradford I was made a
“primo” of the lodge. Back to Keighley again, I found
that a Shakspeare Lodge of “Buffs” was held at the
Ship Inn. The saying is, “Once a Buff., always a
Buff.,” and I at once allied myself with the lodge in my
native town. During my office as primo I initiated upwards of 200
members, among whom I may mention Mr James Walsh, the late Mr
David Hudson, Mr Joseph Town, Mr John Fortune, and Mr James
Blakey. Being the only officer who could initiate a member, I
“had my hands full,” and I at last decided to
communicate with the Bradford lodge as to the installation of a
few primos in Keighley. Accordingly, several primos came down one
Sunday afternoon and installed half-a-dozen primos; so that for
the future I was relieved of much work in connection with the
lodge. There is one very laughable incident I have to chronicle.
The townspeople had got across with a certain gentleman, of whom
Alfred Harris and I made an elaborate effigy, which we intended
to burn. It was a beautiful looking figure and no mistake. We
took the effigy to the lodge-room until such time as we required
it, hanging it behind the door. One night the landlord (Mr
Patrick McShee) had occasion to go into the lodge-room; he knew
nothing about the effigy, and as soon as the poor landlord saw
the “figure of a man hanging himself behind the
door,” he gave a series of the most weird and penetrating
howls. It was not long before he was downstairs, and asking his
wife in an excited voice, “Does ta know whoa wor at
t’last lodge meetin’ an’ didn’t cum
dahnstairs?” “Noa,” said his wife,
“What’s up?” “Ther’s somebody hung
thersel a back o’ t’ door,” said the trembling
landlord. “Oh! nonsense,” said Mrs McShee.
Nevertheless, she went up into the room; and fine fun there was,
you bet, when it was discovered that the “man” was a
dummy. The incident caused unlimited amusement for the customers,
but the landlord was not able to appreciate the fun, and, indeed,
was some weeks before he got over the shock.

CHAPTER XXIII

A TRAMP INTO LANCASHIRE

After a short stay in Keighley, my roving nature again
asserted itself, and I set off on a tramping expedition, with two
companions, in to Lancashire. Going over The Moss we were
overtaken by a severe thunderstorm, and were soon drenched to the
skin by the torrential fall of rain. We made some attempt to dry
our clothes at the Monkroyd Tavern, a hostelry immortalised by
the Lancashire poets, and then pushed on to Colne, where we were
accommodated at the club-house until morning, when I made my way
to Burnley. It was there I fell in with my old friend Dave Hey. I
obtained a situation in Burnley at a sizing establishment
occupied by Mr Alfred Lee, and retained it for seven weeks, by
which time I had got thoroughly disgusted with Lancashire life.
The people I came across seemed to me to be about forty years
behind Keighley folk in many particulars, but especially in
regard to dress and general mode of living. So that when I got
back to Keighley I resolved in my mind that I would not stir out
of the town again.

LOCAL ELECTION EPISODES

On my return I found the town “involved in the trouble
and turmoil” of its first Town Council election. I
interested myself in the election campaign, and attended a
meeting which was held in the West-lane Primitive Methodist
School, was in support of the candidature of Messrs W. Mann, I.
Emmott, and J. Walsh, for the West Ward. In all there were seven
competitors for the three seats in this ward, and in addition to
those mentioned there were the other candidates present. I plied
each candidate with questions, until one Thomas Hey made a
proposition that I should be put out of the meeting if I did not
cease asking questions. I insisted on my right to question the
candidates, and told Mr Hey that I had only to give the word to
my “supporters” behind me and he, instead of me,
would find himself ignominiously carried out of the room. The
meeting was in such a state of confusion that it was closed
without a vote as to the fitness of the candidates being taken.
On another occasion the late Mr James Leach, and Bill Spink and
myself were the chief means of getting the poor rates put on the
property owners. We had a vestry meeting called, and by drumming
up our “party” were able to carry the vote.

BOYCOTTED!

For this action Spink and I were time after time subjected to
boycotting by aggrieved property owners. Spink had to live in no
less than three houses in as many months; as soon as the new
landlord found out who his new tenant was—and the word was
carefully passed along—poor Spink had to
“flit.” Finally, however, he managed to get into a
house where he could stop. I, also, had to suffer similarly,
though not as severely. In return, we practised a system of
annoying the public authorities whenever they required a servant
by sending in applications.

I APPLY FOR SITUATION AS WORKHOUSE MASTER

When advertisements were out for a master at the Workhouse, I
sent in an application along with thirty-nine others. Mr J. W.
Laycock was the chairman of the Board. He objected to my
application being read, but Mr T. Middlebrook and other members
challenged his view, and said the application must be read. It
was somewhat as follows:—“Gentlemen of the Board of
Guardians.—In applying for the situation of Workhouse
master I can assure you that I feel competent for the situation,
seeing that I have had much to do with all classes and kinds of
people in my travels—both high and low, rich and poor. I
know, gentlemen, that you could not do better than engage me, as
I have ben so used to living on low commons that I could keep the
paupers at 1s 3d per head, whereas you boast about keeping them
at 2s 8d or 2s 9d per head. You sit down to a sumptuous dinner,
with salmon, &c., every Board day, Mr Leach informs me, for
which you pay 1s per head. Now, I think I could provide you with
a sumptuous dinner at 3d per head, and I should want that
allowance for a little tobacco. It is not, I can assure you,
gentlemen, a question of wages, but one of sheer honour that
prompts me to apply for the situation of master of the Keighley
Workhouse. If this suits your notice, you can reply by return of
post.—Your humble servant, Bill o’ th’ Hoylus
End.” But I was not appointed; and it is perhaps
unnecessary to say that I did not intend to be appointed. My
application caused much amusement and stir in the town. After
this, Spink and I kept the ball rolling, and one of us applied
for almost every public or semi-public office where we thought we
could cause a little annoyance to the property owners, &c.,
on the Boards. Among other posts I applied for were those of
nuisances inspector and School Boards curator.

“THE POOR MAN’S LAWYER”

It was during the long spell of spare time that I had on my
hands that I became a sort of poor man’s lawyer, though I
had not, I must say, passed the requisite examination. Scores of
people, mostly belonging to the Irish part of the town, put their
confidence in me, telling me secrets which it would not be wise
for me to disclose. This business included a great variety of
subjects and things. But disputes as to insurance and club money
were the most numerous. Many were the insurance agents and
collectors I was brought in contact with, among them being the
late Mr O’Connell.

I TURN INVENTOR

I next turned inventor, and met with some success. I had
always had an idea for invention and novelty, wanting to wear a
different kind of clothes, and dress my warps different from
anybody else. It was in company with Mr William Greenwood that I
invented a warp-slaying machine. This we sold to Mr R. L.
Hattersley. I also invented a patent wax for use in
warp-dressing and weaving. This, I intended, should supersede
Stephenson’s paraffin wax, and that it would have done, I
feel sure, had it been properly placed in the market; but of all
people in the world there is none like a druggist for squeezing
profit out of his wares. He will either have 11½d profit
in every shilling’s worth of goods or “perish in the
attempt.” I disposed of my rights in this patent to a
gentleman who is now in Australia. I also turned my attention to
producing many other little inventions.

CHAPTER XXIVold time friends

BILL SPINK, THE COBBLER

During the past few weeks I have received from friends
acquired in the days of my boyhood and early manhood letters
which have awakened within me a train of memories—both
joyful and sorrowful—respecting my friends and
acquaintances in the auld lang syne. That must be my apology for
devoting this week’s chapter of my
“Recollections” to a brief notice of several of these
local worthies. Of Bill Spink, the statesman-cobbler, I have
previously made mention. Spink was born in the house in West-lane
(now occupied as a club) wherein Mr James Lund, of Malsis Hall,
first saw the light. He was a queer chap in his way was Spink. He
belonged to what I may call the Peculiar political party which
also claimed as members “Little” Barnes, James Leach,
Theophilus Hayes, Joseph Fieldhouse, and your humble servant; and
it was in his little cobbler’s shop that the deliberations
of our party were carried on. Spink took the Tory side in
national politics, and frequently attended political meetings up
and down the district. On one occasion, I well remember, Spink
was sent by the Tory party to a Liberal meeting at Silsden. Sir
Mathew Wilson was one of the speakers, and he was
“tackled” on certain points during his speech by
Spink, until the Radical garrison made a raid upon this
undesirable invader of their citadel, and ejected him into the
street. Spink was severely handled in the process, and it
occupied him all his strength—i.e. all that
remained—to walk back to Keighley. Spink was a man who must
speak his mind, and could not bear to hear the views and
principles which he upheld ruthlessly set at nought. He was, at
bottom, a good-natured man; indeed, I think I scarcely ever came
across a man with a more sympathetic disposition. In any
deserving public object, or case of private distress in the town,
he was the first to the rescue. Unfortunately, he suffered much
from a diseased leg, which was the cause of his death. There was
an unpleasant hitch at the funeral. When the party arrived at the
Keighley Cemetery, it was found that the grave was too small, and
it was some time before the necessary extension could be made.
The circumstance of the mourners having to wait was aggravated by
a heavy down fall of rain. At last, however, the remains of my
old friend were duly consigned to Mother Earth. In his life time
I promised Spink that I would write his epitaph, which I now
produce:—

Here lie the remains of the friend of the
poor,
Inside of his palace without any door.
By man’s inhumanity he was oft made to flit,
But now he’s at home, where he’ll bide for a bit.
He had a large heart that beat in his breast;
Without some sensation he never could rest;
If he saw a mean action he’d cry like a calf;
If he saw a kind deed he’d cry more bi’t half.

A THEATRICAL CHUM

I must now revert to my old theatrical friend, John Spencer,
who had returned from America. He was greatly changed in
appearance, so that I scarcely knew him by sight; he put me in
mind of a Spanish brigand. Spencer, while in the States, had gone
through the Civil War, having served, he told me, on the sides of
both North and South. He was first pressed into service while
travelling with a circus. The request was put to the whole
company, who ’listed as one man, and joined the Confederate
Army. Spencer was put in as express rider, his duty being to act
as mounted postman from one camp to another. It was while on one
of these journeys that he was made a prisoner. He had a large
amount of money in notes upon him, but this he managed to hand
unnoticed to a civilian friend. As a prisoner he was taken to
Washington. Being a first-class misdemeanant, he was allowed to
patrol the streets, which, however, were closely watched, and it
seemed an impossibility for him to pass the sentinels. But John
had knocked about the world a good deal, and had had his wits
sharpened, and by a “theatrical stratagem” he managed
to evade the outposts and to make his escape. He stopped at a
dye-house some distance out of Washington, and was fortunate
enough there to meet with a friend from his native
district—Sam Brook, a theatrical amateur, from Crossflatts,
near Bingley. Sam furnished his erstwhile companion of the stage
with a dyer’s wearing apparel, and, thus disguised, Spencer
managed to get back to the place where he had been captured, and
to recover the notes which he had deposited with the person
mentioned. With this money Spencer seems to have got back to
England. Arrived at Keighley, he sent for me, and nothing would
satisfy him but that I should break off work at once and help
him, so to speak, to “mak t’ brass fly.”
Together we travelled nearly all over Great Britain, and also
paid a visit to Paris. It was in the French capital that Spencer
found the money getting “beautifully less,” and he
concluded that it would be better for all concerned if we
returned to Keighley. This we did. Soon after, Spencer took up a
position as traveller for the Bradford Old Brewery Company. But
the English climate did not seem to suit him—far from it;
there were certain peculiarities about his constitution which
said as much. It was with much pain that one morning I heard of
his death, which had taken place very suddenly at the house of
his father, who was landlord of the Bay Horse Inn. The Rev Mr
Goodman, then the Baptist minister, officiated at the funeral of
the deceased, and, I recollect, spoke of the awful suddenness of
death. His remarks, I felt, were directed to myself, and I was
very uncomfortable the while. Among the many persons present at
the funeral was “Doctor” John Walton, who was at one
time in partnership with Mr Anthony Spencer and Mr Henry Newton
as herbalists, &c.

WITH THE LATE MR EDWIN WAUGH

On one particular evening which has left its imprint indelibly
on my mind, I spent a few pleasant hours with a handful of local
celebrities in the Commercial Inn. The chief of the party was the
celebrated Lancashire poet, the late Mr Edwin Waugh, who had come
to Keighley to give readings in the old Mechanic’s Hall,
and was invited to join us. Another member of our party was Mr
John Hopkinson, brother to Mr Barber Hopkinson. A right merry
fellow he was, full of yarns and comic ditties. With him was his
nephew, Mr Benjamin Hopkinson, who about the time was causing
some stir in the district with several letters which he published
in the Press. This trio are now gone over to the great majority.
Mr Emmott, veterinary surgeon, and Mr Lacy, another local worthy,
were also in the company. Very pleasant and entertaining was the
time we spent together that night. Next morning I accompanied Mr
Waugh to Kildwick, whither we walked on the canal bank. On the
way, the Lancashire poet proved himself an intensely interesting
and instructive companion. He had a large stock of funny stories,
and possessed quite a knack of imparting his sensible advice to
one in an inoffensive and almost unnoticeable manner. During the
journey I said little, but thought much. At Kildwick we inspected
the “Lang Kirk,” and other places of note in the
locality, and then parted. It was soon after this visit that I
wrote the following verses:—

Old Kildwick Grange and Kildwick Hall,
I see them now once more;
They ’mind me of my boyish days,
Those happy days of yore.

The old White Lion in the corner stands,
Most fitting for the poets,
Where Turner from a foreign land
Would give his great exploits.

’Twas in the Indian jungle
The tiger first he saw,
With fiery eye, and open mouth,
Sharp talons on his paw.

They met, and with a desperate spring
The tiger on his prey;
While Turner’s two companions—
Both cowards ran away.

But Turner fought a desperate fight,
His courage ne’er forsook,
He javelled at the tiger
Until his bayonet broke.
One part was in the savage breast,
And Turner understood
If he could grovel out the steel
’Twould draw the savage blood.

’Twas done—the blood gushed out
amain,
The lion-hearted brave
Beheld his foe go to a stream,
To drink and meet his grave.

. . . . .

I see the house where Turner lived;
But Turner is not here.
In the Lang Kirkyard he now may rest
Without a tiger’s fear.

“SAMMY” MOORE, AND OTHERS

Since I began these Reminiscences I have received a letter
from an old friend of mine, whom I said I thought was dead. I
allude to “Sammy” Moore, and I am glad to hear that
he is alive and doing well. I had not heard of him for a score of
years. Many are the happy hours we have spent together on the
stage. His letter says he is in California, where he is occupying
a good situation as registrar of a town of about 10,000
inhabitants. He says he has left off acting and wishes to know if
I have done the same; and he also inquires after many of his old
Keighley friends. This sentence leads me to refer to a few more
of my own friends in the days of yore. There is the Rev William
Thawbrey, a Wesleyan Methodist minister at Keighley, who
subsequently took up work in the mission field in South Africa.
Then there are the late Mr Thomas Carrodus, the manager of the
Yorkshire Penny Bank at Keighley, the Brothers Kay, Mr Joshua
Robinson, and Mr James Lister,—all of whom were fellow
stage amateurs of mine. The hand of death has passed heavily over
my old friends—particularly those with whom I moved on the
amateur theatrical stage—and I can number on my fingers
those who have been left.

CHAPTER XXV

MR JONAS BOTTOMLEY

I had not a little to do with the late Mr Jonas Bottomley, of
mint rock fame. I first became acquainted with him in the warp
department at Messrs Lund’s in West-lane. He came to ask me
if I would write his “manifesto,” or election
address, as he intended “standing” for the Local
Board and the Board of Guardians. I wrote out the address, but Mr
Bottomley did not succeed in getting on either of the Boards. It
was soon afterwards that the Prince of Wales was announced to
visit Milner Field, Saltaire. Mr Bottomley had hit upon some idea
or other, and he came to ask me who was the likeliest person to
write a letter to the Prince of Wales. I referred him to the late
Rev J. Room, vicar of Eastwood. Mr Bottomley accordingly waited
upon Mr Room, who, however, said he had come to the wrong person;
he (Mr Room), was not in the habit of addressing kings and
princes, and lords and dukes, but he could refer him to a man who
was. Mr Room said he knew nobody better for the work than Bill
o’ th’ Hoylus End. So Mr Bottomley appealed to me,
and, with some demur, I penned a rough epistle, which was couched
somewhat as follows:—“To His Royal Highness Albert
Edward Prince of Wales.—May it please your Royal Highness
to accept a package of mint rock from your humble servant. And,
in addition, while your Royal Highness is staying in the
locality, I should very greatly appreciate an interview. If you
could see your way to consent to my earnest longing you would
greatly oblige your most humble and obedient servant, Jonas
Bottomley.” Mr Bottomley told me when I was writing the
letter that if he got the Royal patronage to his mint rock he
would give me £100 “slap dahn,” which, you may
guess, made me as anxious as Mr Bottomley to bring about the
desired “interview.” I had also to write some verses
concerning the Royal visit to Saltaire—

Welcome to Bradford Royal Albert Edward,
Son of Victoria, Old England’s Queen.

These are only a few of the preparations that were made by Mr
Bottomley. But he did not achieve the success he so eagerly
sought; it was on the day the visit took place that he received a
letter in which the Prince of Wales expressed his pleasure to
receive the gift of mint rock so kindly sent by Mr Jonas
Bottomley, but explaining that there were so many gifts of this
nature that it would be out of the question to give a privilege
to one and not to another. I should offer a word of apology for
making such an abrupt introduction of the next event. It was not
many weeks after the above that Mr Bottomley came to an
unfortunate end, his dead body being found on the canal bank at
Leeds, where it was supposed he had been subjected to foul
play.

“SHOOTING MONKEYS”

Readers who have followed me through my
“Recollections” will remember that in one chapter I
said I should have something further to say of my esteemed friend
the late Mr Barber Hopkinson. As is well known, Mr Hopkinson was
of a merrily genial disposition—a veritable type of the
real John Bull, and where his company was, there was no dearth of
quaint, good-humoured talk. As a sportsman, he was known far and
near—

He was indeed a merry chap
As ever made a trigger snap,
And ne’er a bird its wing could flap—
And get away;
Whenever Barber smashed a cap,
It had to stay.

It was his abilities as a “crack” shot that led
him to be generally appealed to for instruction and
“tips” by “pupils in the art of
shooting.” It was one of these “unattached
pupils” who was continually dogging at Mr Hopkinson to
teach him how to shoot straight. His name was Bob Brigg. It was
with great joy that Bob heard Barber say he would give him a
lesson if he turned up on the following Saturday afternoon. Of
course, Bob, gun in hand, was up to time at Mr Hopkinson’s
house in Devonshire-street. Barber took him out into the street
and said: “Tha sees theeas haases?” “Ay,”
replied Bob wonderingly. “Nah, if tha’ll goa
an’ shooit all t’ ‘monkeys’ off
iv’ry one o’ t’ haases, fra t’ top ta
t’ bottom o’ t’ street, tha’ll be a varry
fair shot when tha’s finished.” Bob, I believe in the
goodness of his heart, set out to find the monkeys, but without
success, and he returned to tell his “instructor”
that he “hed been i’ iv’ry harse i’
t’ street, but noan on ’em hed a monkey in it.”
Barber, notwithstanding, maintained that there was a monkey on
t’ top o’ nearly every house; and Bob felt that he
had been nicely “taken in” when the sort of monkeys
alluded to was explained to him. It was common knowledge at that
time that every—or nearly every—house in
Devonshire-street had a “monkey” (i.e. a
mortgage) on it. The incident was the subject of much fun for a
long time afterwards—Bob Brigg and his monkey-shooting. But
Barber did really teach “the young idea to shoot,”
taking Bob with him on several shooting expeditions.

“WHEN GREEN LEAVES COME AGAIN”

Perhaps the following unpublished poem, which I wrote some
years ago, will not be inappropriate at this season; it will
“go” to the tune of the old English ballad,
“The dawning of the day”:—

As I walk out one winter’s morn,
Along the Steeton Ing,
And as I gaze me all around
Romantic ideas spring.
I think upon my past career,
With antics all in vain;—
But I will be a better lad
When green leaves come again.

The little birds I cannot see,
Excepting now and then;
For they are far beyond the sea
And left the haunts of men.
The trees are bare, and every bush
Speaks out to me so
plain—
That I should be a better lad
When green leaves come again.

The fields are like a silvery lake,
The mountain tops are white,
And rear their heads majestically—
To me a great delight;
And as I gaze on Rivock End,
Across the silvery plain,
Methinks I hear a voice speak out—
“Green leaves will come
again.”

Green leaves came, and green leaves went,
And they are gone once more,
And I have never kept my vow,
Which makes my heart full sore.
But I will never “dee i’ t’ shell,”
But make that vow again—
That I will be a better lad
When green leaves come again.

And should I tarry here a while
To see the smiling scene,
When nature takes her snow-white cloth
And changes it for green,
I shall be faithful to my vow
With all my might and main;
For I will be a better lad
“When green leaves come
again.”

CHAPTER XXVI

OLD MUSICIANS

I now purpose briefly to refer to a few old singers whose
friendship or acquaintance I enjoyed. Mr Edwin Ogden was well
known in the neighbourhood as being about one of the best local
singers of his day. Many townsfolk will remember Edwin, together
with William Haggas, another old musician, teaching a
singing-class. Ogden was a shoemaker by trade but he dabbled more
in music than in wax and leather. For many years he held the
position of leading chorister at St. Anne’s Roman Catholic
Church. He also “gave of his talents” on frequent
occasions at local concerts, and was in great favour with the
public. He made as many young singers, I suppose, as Joe Turner
made musicians in the instrumental sense of the word. Turner was
for many years the conductor of Marriner’s Brass Band. Not
a few of our present-day musicians will be able to date the
commencement of their musical career from the time they took up
instruction with either Ogden or Turner. The former has been
removed by death, but the latter is still with us. James
Greenwood was also one of the school to which Ogden and Turner
belonged; and the three took great interest in the musical
training of the late Mademoiselle Matilda Florella Illingworth
previous to her visiting the conservatoires of music on the
Continent. Mr James Wright, my father, also interested himself in
Miss Illingworth, in whom at an early period of her life he
detected material for the making of an accomplished vocalist. She
was a frequent visitor at our house, and often have I heard her
sing “Robin Adair”—my father’s favourite
song. After she had been on the Continent, I heard Miss
Illingworth tell how often while there she was swindled by the
proprietors and managers of theatres and music-halls. In some
instances she was subjected to the most cruel impositions. More
than once she was robbed of all her stage properties, and in
Florence she was duped out of every half-penny of the proceeds of
a concert which she promoted. Other musicians of the time, I may
mention, were John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, and Joe
Constantine. It was in memory of these old musicians that I wrote
the following verses:—

A DISAPPOINTED MAN

I think an apology will be scarcely needed for introducing a
few remarks regarding Mr James Wallbank, a well-known and
eccentric character in the town. I have heard that James is dead.
Whether this is so or not I cannot say; certainly I have not seen
the old gentleman about for some time. James was for many years
billiard-marker at the Devonshire Hotel. He cherished the idea
that he was related to royalty. He often told me that he was a
relative of one of the old kings of France, and insisted that his
name instead of being Wallbank should be Wal de Brooke, or
something like that. When Burridge, the celebrated American
painter, was in Keighley, he stayed at the Devonshire Hotel and
painted Mr Walbank’s portrait, and the picture is now in
the possession of Mr Martin Reynolds.

“GOOISE AN’ GIBLET PIE.”

Another well-known character was Harry Smith, manufacturer.
Harry was a man intensely fond of fun, and one Christmas Eve, I
remember, when I was coming from the station after returning from
Scotland, he tapped me on the shoulder, and, after ascertaining
where I had been of late, quoted a motto of the
Freemasons’—“In my Father’s house are
many mansions, but such as I have I give unto thee. Follow
me.” I went with Smith to his house, and spent Christmas
Eve there. The subject of my poem, “Gooise and Giblet
Pie,” arose out of that night’s
proceedings:—

A Kersmas song I’ll sing mi lads,
If you’ll but hearken me,
An incident i’ Kersmas time
I’ eighteen sixty three:
Withaht a cypher i’ the world
I’d scorn to tell a lie—
I dined wi’ a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.

I offen think o’ t’ feed, mi
lads,
When t’ gentleman I meet;
But nauther of us speyke a word
Abaht that glorious neet;
In fact, I hardly can mysel—
I feel so fearful shy;
For I ate a deal o’ t’ roasted gooise,
An’ warmed his giblet pie.

THE CONCLUDING CHAPTER

It must be a long lane that has no turning. I am afraid the
Herald readers who have followed my Recollections will
have thought Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End’s memory an
inexhaustible one. The truth is, when I commenced to
“resurrect” my past career I had no idea that the
stories and reminiscences would extend to anything like the
length they have gone to; and even now I find that the source of
supply is far from being exhausted. But, in the circumstances, I
have decided to conclude with this week’s
chapter—“the last scene that ends this strange and
eventful history.” In the first place, I must crave an
apology from my readers for not having been able to give events
in my career in their chronological order. As I stated at the
outset, I had no diary or data whatever to go by, and have simply
reeled the stories and anecdotes off my memory. It will thus be
readily seen that I cannot have given every little transaction or
happening in my life. In my Recollections I have now and again
introduced descriptions and narratives of various characters with
whom I was brought closely in contact. I may say that in doing
this I have made it my aim to omit, or, failing that, to treat
with proper respect, all incidents concerning individuals who
were living themselves or had relatives living; and I think that
nothing I have said in regard to friends or foes gone over to the
Great Majority will have given the slightest offence to their
living representatives. I commenced by recapitulating some of the
tricks of my boyhood—when I was said, by the old
house-wives, to be the “village
harum-skarum”—and have traced my career down to
within a few years of the present time. Some of my stories have
been favourable, others unfavourable to my character. My critics
will have said that Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End has many
faults; but I must ask them to forgive my many shortcomings, and
look upon my few virtues. Above all things, I think I can say
that with all reasonableness I have held to the truth. Most of
the people of Keighley and the surrounding towns and villages are
familiar with the name, at least, of Bill o’ th’
Hoylus End. Without appearing vain or egotistical, I think I may
say that I have been recognised by high and low, rich and poor,
and by people not altogether unknown to fame. Of all my friends,
I entertain the greatest respect for the late Sir Titus Salt,
whose assurance I had that if, while he was alive, I wanted a
helping hand I need not go far or wait long for it. The baronet
honoured me with an interview, at which he told me how highly he
thought of the poem which I had written just previously on the
occasion of the unveiling of the monument of Sir Titus in
Bradford. Perhaps a couple of verses of my “Ode to Sir
Titus Salt” will not be misplaced here:—

Heedless of others, some there are
Who all their days employ
To raise themselves, no matter how,
And better men destroy.
How different is the mind of him
Whose deeds themselves are told,
Who values worth more nobler far
Than all the heaps of gold.

No empty titles ever could
His principles subdue;
His queen and country, too, he loved,
Was loyal and was true:
He craved no boon from royalty,
Nor wished their pomp to share;
For nobler is the soul of him,
The Founder of Saltaire.

I may venture to say that I have had a valued friend in Mr
Butterfield, of Bonnie Cliffe Castle and fair Marianna, Nice;
also in Sir Isaac Holden, Bart, M.P., Dr Dobie, Keighley, and
other gentlemen. I have had a letter, commending my rhyme, from
Sir Albert K. Rollit; and other communications with respect to
the outpouring of my muse from Mr Archie Laidlaw, of Edinburgh;
Councillor Burgess, of Congleton, Cheshire, &c. I was
privileged to claim the late Rev J. Room, M.A., as an especial
friend, and may say that of all the times I shook hands with him
I scarcely ever withdrew my hand without finding
“something” in it. Mr Room’s last request to me
was that I would write seven verses—and only seven, he
said—on the death of his dear, beloved wife. I promised to
do so, but (partly through my dilatoriness, I must admit) the rev
gentleman did not live to receive the verses. During the past few
days, however, I have written the following verses on

THE LATE REV. J. ROOM, M.A.

John Room! he is dead and is buried;
There is mourning the whole village through,
And all the people who knew him
Are loth to bid him adieu.

’Tis true he was filled with
compassion;
God’s nature in him over-flowed;
He knew all the people with burdens,
And strove hard to lighten their load.

His dress it were plain and quite common,
No pride in him could you trace;
Yet you knew that he was a good parson
Whenever you looked in his face.

The worst things his foes knew about
him—
He was fond of satire or joke,
Writing some verses of rhythm,
Which always amused the folk.
Whene’er he walked into the pulpit,
He bowed for a moment in prayer,
Every soul in the temple grew thirsty;—
The true Christian spirit was there.

His likes there are few in the nation,
(I wish in my heart there were more;
For it wants something else besides learning,
To grapple the hearts of the poor.)

’Tis true he was high up in learning
The secrets of nations long dead;
But he cared more for those who were yearning
Sad tears round the sufferer’s bed.

Then farewell! my worthy old preacher,
For thou shall have no end of praise—
Good father and true-hearted shepherd,
Who knew both the poor and their ways.

SOME LAUGHABLE STORIES

In this, the last chapter, I should like to give a few
anecdotes concerning an eccentric character who was pretty well
known in the Keighley district, although he was a native of
Flintergill, a village near Kendal. This individual was known as
“Kendal,” “Flintergill Billy,”
“Three bease an’ a Cow” &c. He was a
warpdresser by trade, and for a time worked along with me at
Messrs Butterfield Bros.’ Prospect Mill. He often used to
tell us that his father had “two bease an’ a
cow” on his farm at “Flintergill.” Yes;
“Billy” was as queer a chap as one could well
imagine—such a specimen as one often reads about in comic
almanacs, but seldom sees. At one period of his stay in Keighley,
“Billy” lived at Paradise—a row of cottages
just below the Prospect Mill. His wife was a weaver in the mill,
and one baking day, I remember, she gave her husband strict
orders “ta hev t’ fire under t’ oven when she
com’ fra her wark.” “Kendal” was working
alongside me at warp-dressing, and just before stopping time the
thought chanced to strike him that he had to have the fire going.
Away home he darted, and on his return he stated, in reply to my
question, that he thought all was right. Soon afterwards I
happened to ask if he had put the fire under the pan or the oven,
and he had to acknowledge that he did not know where he had put
it. He set off home again to see how things stood, and lo and
behold! he had put the fire under the pan. Now,
“Billy” was not blessed with a superabundance of
sense, and (perhaps flurried by the thought that if the oven was
not ready in time he would “get his ear-hoil weel
combed” by his wife) he scaled the fire out of the range,
and re-kindled it under the oven with the clothes-pegs. The idea
of pushing the fire across under the oven did not seem to occur
to poor “Billy’s” brain. The fact remains that
he had just got the clothes-pegs nicely alight when in popped his
wife . . . For various reasons I draw the curtain over the
closing scenes in the little farce.—“Billy”
never would allow it to be said that his wife ever bossed him.
Indeed it used to be a standing boast with “Kendal”
in public-house company that he “could mak’ their
Martha dew just as he wanted her; he hed nobbut ta stamp his
fooit, an’ shoo did it in a minit.” He was boasting,
as usual, one day, when in came “Martha,” and,
without any words of explanation, seized her “lord and
master” by the hair of the head, and dragged him out of the
door. The company fully appreciated the situation, and with one
voice shouted, “Stamp, Flintergill, stamp!” But there
was no stamping. “Martha” pre-eminently proved her
authority as “boss,” whether poor, hen-pecked
“Flintergill” came in as “foreman” or
“deputy,” or merely “apprentice” or
what.—Another remarkable feature about
“Flintergill” was that he never came back to his work
in the afternoon except that he had had ham, veal, beef, or some
other “scrumptious viand” to his dinner. But on one
occasion one of his shop-mates detected some flour porridge on
his waistcoat. During the afternoon this shop-mate asked
“Flintergill” what he had had for dinner. “Duck
and green peas,” promptly replied “Kendal.”
“Aye,” said the workman, “an’
ther’s a feather o’ thi
waistcoit.”—Another side-light on
“Kendal’s” character will perhaps be afforded
by the following. He went to a certain shoemaker’s in
Haworth, and got measured for a pair of boots, which it was
arranged should be ready by a stated time. Then he went to
another shoemaker’s shop in the village, and was measured
for a pair there. The anecdote runs that on the day fixed for the
boots to be ready “Flintergill” sent his
father-in-law’s daughter to each of the shoemakers, telling
her to get “t’reight un fra one, an’
t’left un fra t’other.” In this way, it was
“Flintergill’s” frequent boast, he got a pair
of boots for nothing.—Another story relates his visit to
Bradford. “Flintergill” intended to spend the evening
in Pullan’s Music Hall, but he got into the Bowling Green,
where there happened to be a waxwork show. “This must be
Pullan’s,” said “Flintergill” to his
companion; and up they both went on the platform.
“Billy” offered his money to the door-keeper, who,
however, neither spoke nor held out his hand.
“Flintergill” said he “wor a funny
door-keeper” and threatened that “if he didn’t
tak’ t’ brass they wor bahn in abaht.” And
inside “Flintergill” and his friend bounced, to find
that the door-keeper was “Tim Bobbin,”—a wax
figure.—Still another anecdote says that
“Flintergill” was one day seen up a tree sawing off
one of the branches. A passer-by asked, “What is ta dewin
up theear, Flintergill?” “Oh,” was the reply,
“we call this weyvin i’ ahr country.” No sooner
were the words spoken than “Flintergill” tumbled to
the ground. “Ah see,” said his questioner, very
aptly, “an’ tha’s come dahn fer some more
bobbins.” It appeared that “Flintergill” had
been sawing off the bough on which he was standing.—I will
close this series of anecdotes with a reference to the frequency
of “Flintergill’s” flittings. He used to say
that he had no sooner got into a house than it was wanted for a
beer-house or by a railway company. “Flintergill”
kept a few hens, and it was said that these hens became so
accustomed to the “flittings” that at the first sign
of preparations for removing they would roll over on their backs
with their legs together ready to be tied.

MY LAST RAMBLE

To a few verses I recently wrote I have given the title
“My last ramble.” The lines run as follow:—

As I stroll round by Exley Head
Down by the Wheathead Farm,
My thoughts fall back to days bygone—
Thoughts which my soul doth charm;
Each hill and clough, each hedge and stile,
To me they are most dear;
And as I pass them one by one
They bring to me a tear.

In old Fell Lane when I was young,
A ruined mansion stood,
With roofless cots filled up with sticks
Brought from the Holme House Wood.
And now I cross the Intake Brig
Where I used to sport and play,
And bathe, and plunge, and water splash
Full many a happy day.

I gaze upon the old farm-gate,
And long to have a swing
Along with all my boyish mates,
As happy as a king;
For the carriage of the noble man,
Or the chariot of the State,
Never carried nobler hearts
Than did the old farm-gate.

I now pass by the Intake Farm,
And I am much amazed;
It has the charm for me to day
As first I on it gazed.
And farther as I wind my way
And climb the old Blackhill,
A scene appears before my sight
To me more charming still.

The silvery Tarn—once my delight,
For there I took my skates,
On many a happy winter day,
With my dear little mates.
The old Tarn House I see again,
The seat of Aaron King;
And as I gaze from east to west
Such sights of wonder spring.

As far as e’er my eye can see,
Hills on each other rise,
Towering their heads in majesty
Far in the western skies;
And as I view the landscape round,
No artist here could dream
The beauties of the Vale of Aire,
With its crooked, wimpling stream.

This was my walk one summer morn,
When all was on the wing:
I heard the cuckoo tell his name,
I heard the lark to sing.
I left the Tower upon the hill
Dedicated to the Queen,
And for old Keighley back again,
Charmed with all I’d seen.

I must now wind up my rough-and-ready stories. Let me say that
if, by the recital of some of the incidents which happened during
my nomadic career, I have caused any pleasure or amusement to my
readers, I feel amply repaid. If anything which I have said has
given offence or caused displeasure in any quarter, kindly permit
me to say that it was done quite unwittingly.

The Christmas season will soon be here, and in preparation for
that glad time let us put away envy and malice, and offer peace
and good-will unto all. I think the following poem will
seasonably conclude my present series of writings:—

CHRISTMAS DAY

Sweet lady, ’t is no troubadour
That sings so sweetly at your door,
To tell you of the joys in store—
So grand and gay;
But one that sings “Remember t’ poor,
’Tis Christmas Day.”

Within some gloomy walls to-day
Just cheer the looks of hoary gray,
And try to smooth their rugged way
With cheerful glow;
And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray,
Crushed down with woe.

O! make the weary spent-up glad,
And cheer the orphan lass and lad;
Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad,
Your kindness feel;
And make old crazy-bones stark mad
To dance a reel.

Then, peace and plenty be your lot,
And may your deed ne’er be forgot
That helps the widow in her cot
Out of your store;
Nor creed, nor seed, should matter not—
The poor are poor.

[The End]

Footnotes

[1] Each chapter corresponds to a
separate article in the Keighley Herald and are numbered as such
in the newspaper. To help in locating the originals the
following may be useful:

Chapter

Issue of the Keighley Herald

I

2 June 1893

II

9 June 1893

III

16 June 1893

IV

23 June 1893

V

30 June 1893

VI

7 July 1893

VII

14 July 1893

VIII

21 July 1893

IX

28 July 1893

X

4 August 1893

XI

11 August 1893

XII

18 August 1893

XIII

1 September 1893

XIV

8 September 1893

XV

15 September 1893

XVI

22 September 1893

XVII

29 September 1893

XVIII

6 October 1893

XIX

13 October 1893

XX

20 November 1893

XXI

27 October 1893

XXII

3 November 1893

XXIII

10 November 1893

XXIV

17 November 1893

XXV

24 November 1893

XXVI

1 December 1893

Concluding

8 December 1893

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